The Dragonborn and the Lioness
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: A strange Nord comes to Riften and two lives will be changed forever. My first Skyrim fic, rated M for violence, some language and other things. Told in the setting of an epic, but can be read by those with no experience in either Skyrim or Elder Scrolls. Enjoy
1. Chance Meeting

**(AN: A whole new adventure awaits, one into which I have not frequently delved into until now. One reason was that I love this story and would like to add my name to those who have taken up this adventurous tale. Another reason is that one of the characters in this story been poorly neglected by the fan-fic authors on here, so I thought why not?)  
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* * *

**Chance Meeting**

The Rift was one of the most beautiful places in all of Skyrim. White-barked aspens rose their shining heads into the rising sun, glowing golden with the captured light on both leaf and floor, where the leaves fell every autumn. In the south-eastern corner of the Rift, the wide Lake Honrich sat peacefully still. Sitting upon the south-eastern end of the lake, just behind the heights of Forelhost Mountain, was the lake-town of Riften. Upon its stone and wooden foundations sat a town of wooden logs and planks that was a marvel of Nord architecture.

It was to this town that a lone figure galloped along atop a bay stallion. It was a strong figure, tall and clad in fur, leather and chain-mail. Upon his head was a cap of steel, and upon his back was a greatsword little more than half his height. From the back of his helmet there flowed a braid of light brown hair that flowed down to the mid of his back. Quite an impressive figure, and a credit to the Nords of Skyrim.

The tall Nord rode up to the stone-made northern gate of Riften, protected by two city guards. He checked his horse at the stables nearby and handed a few gold septims to the stable-boy to keep his horse there for the night. He then walked up toward the gate, but halted as one of the guards approached him.

"You there, stranger," the guard said to the Nord. "All visitors to Riften are required to pay the visitor's tax."

The Nord said nothing, but eyed the shorter guard suspiciously. For a moment the guard seemed almost threatened by the silent stare of the giant Nord and placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. It was a flimsy thing, two cubits in length, held by one hand: if it did come to blows, the Nord's greatsword would have little trouble shattering this one-handed blade.

"Are you deaf?" the guard returned. "I said, all visitors to Riften are required to pay the visitor's tax!"

"Whatever for?" the Nord asked.

"Why, for the pleasure of visiting our fair city, of course!" the guard returned, keeping his shrouded eyes on the deep, dark brown eyes of the tall Nord. "Are you going to pay up or not?"

"I'm not paying any toll," the Nord said.

"And why not?" the guard challenged.

"I've been to Whiterun, Helgen and Riverwood," the Nord stated. "They don't charge visitors to enter their cities."

"Well, this isn't Whiterun, is it, _friend_?" the guard retorted. "This is Riften. Things are different here, now pay up!"

"This is obviously a shake-down," the Nord returned.

The guard looked over his shoulder at the other guard, then to the stable boy nearby, then looked back at the Nord.

"Alright, alright, not so loud!" he hissed. "Do you want everyone to hear you? Just give me a moment, I'll unlock the gate."

With a resigned sigh, the guard walked over to the gate and unlocked it, allowing the tall Nord to enter the city of Riften.

* * *

Riften was quite large, built almost entirely out of wood. The streets were boardwalks built over the lake, and most of the buildings were of food. The stone that was there belonged to the stone arch that made the northern gate, the city square and Mistveil Keep, home of the Jarl of the Rift. The city sat upon three levels, with the lowermost level at the water's level, and the main level, that upon which the Nord now walked which was on level with the northern gate, above it. The next level towered above that, with ladders and wooden bridges overhead. The smell of fish and mead met the Nord's nostrils as he passed by the tall buildings. Obviously, fish was the greatest resource of the city.

While the Nord was walking down the street, he heard two people speaking nearby. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the strangest persons speaking together. One was a thin-framed, dark-haired Cyrodilian, or Imperial. He was dressed in a faded orange surcoat and had at his belt a short dagger in a sheath. But it was the one to whom this little Imperial was speaking that drew the eyes of the Nord.

He saw a Nord woman, tall of stature and with the body of an adventurer. She was clad in a rusty old breastplate of iron, with a simple fauld, iron wrist-guards and boots of iron. Upon her back was a great battle-ax, almost as big as the Nord's great-sword. When she spoke, the Nord forgot the voices of any other women he had heard until then.

"I had another run-in with the Thieves Guild," the Nord woman said to the small Imperial.

"Be careful, Mjoll," the Imperial replied. "The Thieves Guild has Maven Black-Briar on their side. One snap of her fingers and you could end up in jail, or worse..."

"I won't ignore them, Aerin," the Nord woman said. "They represent the reason I'm here."

"I know, I know," the young Cyrodilian sighed. "I just don't want you to leave. You're the only good thing that's happened to this city in a long time." He then looked up and cleared his throat as he saw the newcomer approach. The woman turned and the Nord saw her face rightly for the first time. She had long hair, like red gold, and her eyes looked amber. The left side of her face bore a single stripe of blue war-paint, in the midst of which, on her cheek, were three tiny scars like the scratches of some beast.

"Hello, stranger," the Nord woman said, turning to the Nord man. "Welcome to Riften. We don't get many visitors here."

"I'm here on business," the Nord man replied stoically.

"Where are you headed?" the Cyrodilian asked.

"Wherever the inn is located," the Nord man stated.

"That would be the Bee and Barb, in the city square," the Nord woman replied. "I'm headed that way myself. If you would like to join me, your company would be most welcome."

"As you wish," the Nord replied.

* * *

**(AN: So, what do you think so far?)**

**(As far as story-objectives go, I'm going to arrange the story that is told so that those who are new to _Skyrim _don't necessarily need to play the game to know what's happening [you should, just because it's amazing]. Like most epics, it starts in the middle of the story [yay, for following the epic formula set down since Homer!], but there will be detailed back-stories which will tell about what happens before.)  
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**(Don't forget to review, it helps with chapters getting published faster.)  
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	2. Thieves Guild

**(AN: Yay, just one chapter and already a review! Thank you, _Cyrus_. I'll be sure to put action in this chapter, maybe someone will lose a limb [lol])  
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**(Thank you for the suggestion, but I have a name already: Eirik, after the hero from the Faroese ballad "Fipan Fagra", which is also the name of my Dragonborn in _Skyrim_.)  
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**(With that blessing, I know this story is going to end well.)  
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* * *

**Thieves Guild**

The tall Nord seemed to not be very talkative, but took in the sights and smells of Riften with quiet interest. The woman at his side, however, was exactly the opposite. She seemed to always have something to say. From the moment they left the young Cyrodilian at his house by the north gate, the Nord woman, whose name was Mjoll, continued along the way to the Bee and Barb inn about everything in their path. She talked about the alleys where she had faced off against members of the Thieves Guild. If they passed any by on their way through the streets, she would regale the tall Nord with the tales of how she had helped them out in times of need.

As they walked on, another Nord man appeared from out of the shadows. He was clad in steel armor and had a mean look upon his face. He stood in front of the silent Nord and glared at him.

"New in town?" he asked. "If you'd like my advice, you'll keep your nose out of trouble."

"Leave him alone, Maul," Mjoll interjected. "We're on our way to the inn."

"What's the matter, stranger, can't talk?" the Nord called Maul mocked. "Or maybe you haven't got the balls to speak to a true Nord, letting this woman speak for you. I didn't take you for a milk-drinker, what with that fine armor and..."

In one quick moment, the Nord had seized Maul's head and slammed him into one of the wooden pillars of a nearby house. The wood cracked, and Maul was flailing against the iron grip of the Nord's hand, who dropped him onto the ground.

"Think you're tough, huh?" remarked Maul. "But you're hardly clever."

The Nord was suddenly pushed over on top of Maul, and a figure went running down the street away from where they were fighting. Mjoll shouted after him, but no one moved to stop him. Turning to see what had happened, the Nord reached to his belt and found that his purse was missing. He pushed himself back onto his feet and set out running after the thief. Through crowded streets they went, all the while the sight of a golden-haired youth in ratty dark green kept in the Nord's mind as his target.

"Down, stranger!" a voice called out from behind.

The Nord turned and saw the woman Mjoll with a piece of wood about one cubit in length, which she threw at the thief. He was downed in one hit, but did not stay down long. But that blow was enough. The Nord had chased the thief down and hauled him up to his knees.

"Give it back to me," he said to the thief.

"Go to hell!" the thief returned, spitting in the Nord's face.

A huge fist from the Nord struck the thief in the nose, shattering it, then pulled out of the thief's belt a dagger. He stuck it through his shirt and pinned him up against the wall of a large structure made of wooden logs, hanging him there like a piece of meat to be dried.

"I can make this worse if you don't cooperate," the Nord threatened.

"It's no use," Mjoll's voice replied. She had come from behind and had the wood length in her hand, which she then pointed at the thief's right hand. Upon it was tattooed a black diamond shape with a circle within the middle. "The mark of the Thieves Guild: he's not just a common cut-purse, he's one of them."

The Nord turned back to the thief, then saw that his right hand was curled about the prize he sought. Stepping back, he drew out his great-sword and hacked the thief's hand off at the wrist. The hand fell to the ground, where the Nord bent down and returned his purse to its belt.

"Thank you," he said to the thief with a smile.

"You think this is over?" the thief shouted. "Maven Black-Briar will hear about this, yes she will! I'll see you rot in Riften jail before First Seed! That's a promise, you bastard!"

The two Nords turned their backs on the raving thief and continued on their way.

"You know," Mjoll said. "I normally wouldn't approve of such violence, but he's one of the Thieves Guild. They're the worst kind of rabble."

"What makes you say that?" the Nord asked.

"Even the fabled Dark Brotherhood abides by a strict set of rules and traditions, or so the legends said," Mjoll continued. "The Thieves Guild, bah! They're just rabble. To call it a guild is ridiculous: how can people who would betray one another over gold be considered part of an association?" She looked over at the Nord, who did not seem to be paying attention. "What do you think?"

"Hmm?" he replied. "Oh, yes. I agree. Honor means quite a bit to me, and these thieves seem wholly without honor." Mjoll chuckled. "What is it?"

"You know, I'm beginning to respect you," she replied. "Other than Aerin, you seem to be the only other person I've met I might be able to trust. Since we share the same opinion of them, let me warn you to be cautious. That thief wasn't jesting when he threatened to put you in jail."

"I've been in worse situations than a simple prison," the Nord said. "Did you hear about Helgen?"

"Not particularly," Mjoll replied.

"It was attacked by a dragon," the Nord replied. "Burned the town to the ground. I was one of the survivors."

"A dragon?" Mjoll exclaimed. "By the Divines, how could this happen!"

"You worship the Divines as well?" the Nord asked.

"Aye," Mjoll nodded.

"What about Talos?" he asked.

"I worship Mara," the Nord woman replied. "I always have since I was young, but I have nothing against those who choose other Divines to worship." They then came to a halt before the tall wooden structure near the center of town. It was two stories high and had a hanging sign with a tiny golden bee perched on a black fishing hook over the door.

"Well," Mjoll sighed. "Here we are, the Bee and Bard. Best inn in Riften."

"Aye," the Nord nodded. "Thank you for helping me with that thief."

"Surely, I would do anything to foil the plans of the Thieves Guild," Mjoll laughed.

"Well, Divines bless you," the Nord nodded.

"Just a moment, friend," Mjoll interjected. "I'm going in as well. I usually eat lunch at the inn. It would be nice to have someone to talk to, if you're not busy."

"I would like that," the Nord returned.

"Good," Mjoll said. "Now, uh, what did you say your name was, friend?"

"I didn't," he replied stoically.

"Yes, I recall," she nodded. "Even so, I would like to know your name."

"Eirik," he replied.

* * *

Inside, the Bee and Barb was dark and stuffy. A few men were milling about, sharing secret business over their tankards, but paid the newcomers no heed. Mjoll brought Eirik up to the counter and ordered two flagons of mead from the Argonian behind the counter. The reptilian woman seemed grim, though Eirik noticed a hammer-shaped amulet sitting upon her scaly neck.

"Hail Ysmir," Eirik said to the Argonian.

"Aye," she replied, her red eyes not moving from the counter.

Mjoll called Eirik over to her spot at the inn. Her spot was a table that sat against the wall opposite the counter. From here, with one seated at each of the two chairs at this table, one could see what was going on at both entrances to the inn.

"So, friend, what brings you to Riften?" Mjoll began. "Visitors like us are rare in this part of Skyrim."

"You're not from Riften?" Eirik asked.

"I've been adventuring across Tamriel since I was a fresh-faced young woman barely able to swing a blade," Mjoll replied. "My travels have taken me from Highrock to Valenwood, Elsweyr, Morrowind and all points in between."

"Why are you here, then?" Eirik continued.

Mjoll sighed, brushing her hand over the three scratch-marks on her face. "Many years ago, I lost my blade Grimsever within a Dwemer ruin. I took it as a sign that I was wasting my days in search of wealth." She looked up at Eirik.

"We're not so different, you and I. We both see eye to eye on the blight of the Thieves Guild and, from your stance, I can tell that you are a warrior, one who is always seeking great challenge. But, for me, that's where those similarities end. You see, Riften is my great beast to be slain. And while your fortune may lie in a few septims easily taken by any cut-purse, mine comes from gratitude at helping others and trust."

At that moment, the Argonian land-lady arrived at their table with their food: warm bread, cold cheese, hot soups, salted meats and mead. They ate, but Mjoll noticed that Eirik ate swiftly and hungrily, as though he had gone for many days without food.

"Mjoll?"

"Aye?"

"You seem to speak of Riften," Eirik began, tearing a hunk of bread for himself. "As though you are its protector."

"It's been quite difficult," Mjoll said. "I've taken the burdens of this city's problems upon myself and keep running into impossible obstacles: corruption, lies and deceit are the order of the day here. If it wasn't for Aerin, I think I would have given up long ago..." She paused, a smile upon her face. "Speak of a dragon and he appears!"

Eirik turned about and saw the small-framed Cyrodilian making his way into the inn. He greeted Eirik and was introduced formally by Mjoll. Upon seeing that his seat was taken, he started to leave, but Mjoll insisted that he join them and asked the land-lady Kee-Rava if they could pull up a third chair at their table for Aerin. The Argonian agreed and now the two had become three.

"A tankard of mead, Kee-Rava!" the Cyrodilian called out. "And make it the good stuff, none of that overrated Black-Briar sewage!"

Several of the tenants barked at Aerin, but quieted when they saw Mjoll and the strong-armed Eirik nearby.

"New in town, eh?" Aerin said, turning to Eirik. "Word of warning, stay clear of the Thieves Guild. They're run by the Black-Briar family, they've got this whole city in their pocket."

"Who is the Black-Briar family?" Eirik asked.

"Maven Black-Briar, the matriarch of the family, represents everything that's wrong with this city," Mjoll began. Nearby, Eirik saw Aerin sigh and roll his eyes fondly, as though he had heard this story many times over. "She's bribed countless officials and freely associates with the Thieves Guild. Of course, no one can dare touch her because she has friends back in the Imperial City. I've tried everything I can to protect the citizens of Riften from her and her family, but to no avail!" She smote the table with her fist, upsetting the food and spilling some of the mead from the tankards. With a frustrated groan, she buried her face in her hand.

"I've never seen Mjoll this upset before," Aerin whispered to Eirik. "This city really gets to her." She playfully hit him on the shoulder to keep him from talking on.

"Who else is in the family?" Eirik asked once Mjoll had regained her composure.

"Well," Mjoll began again. "There's Ingun, Maven's daughter. Strange girl, spends all her time in Elgrim's Elixirs, brewing who knows what. Then there's Hemming, Maven's heir: spoiled rotten brat, he follows her word like a dog to its master. The last is Sibbi, the worst of them all: he's in the Riften jail for murder, but I think that's less than what he deserves."

"Come on, let's talk of happier things!" Aerin said, patting Mjoll's shoulder firmly. "I mean, you've always talked about all the places you've gone to. Maybe one day I'll get to see those, too." He then turned to the Nord. "How about you, friend? Where have you been?"

"I'm native to Falkreath," Eirik replied. "Never left Skyrim until about three months ago." He then turned to Mjoll. "You mentioned that Aerin saved your life, just a moment ago."

"Oh, gods, here we go again," Aerin said, rolling his eyes.

"He's modest," Mjoll said.

"I didn't do anything special," the Cyrodilian interjected. "Anyone would have done the same thing."

"But it wasn't anyone who found me outside of that ruin, was it, Aerin?" Mjoll continued. "It was you. You brought me here and nursed me back to health, you saved my life."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Aerin blushed. "You're a strong woman yourself, I think you could have survived."

"I don't think I could have," the woman said, smiling at Aerin and gently punching his shoulder. She then turned to Eirik. "When my strength returned and he told me about Riften's problems, I thought to myself: 'Fate brought me here for a reason.' So, I decided to stay and help the people of Riften."

"And not a day goes by that I'm not grateful to have you here," Aerin said, beaming at his companion. He then turned to Eirik. "So, will you be staying in Riften for long?"

"Not very long," he replied. "I have business here."

"So you said," Aerin sighed, then exclaimed as he saw his food brought before him. While he dug in, Mjoll turned to Eirik.

"Now, why don't you share with me the stories of your adventures?" she asked.

"Like what?" he replied.

"I don't know, anything," she continued. "I've told you almost all of my life's story, I want to hear what happened with you and the dragon in Helgen."

"Well..."

* * *

**(AN: And that is where we'll cut it for now.)**

**(Following in the style of an epic, we retell a bit of the story in a kind of "flashback", though obviously it wouldn't be a flashback in the epic tales, it would be told in verse/prose. Still, this is going to be epic.)  
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**(I tried to follow Mjoll's quotes almost exactly, but some were difficult. Also, she's going to be doing a lot more talking [obviously], but hopefully you will get to see why. I'm also broadening her back-story, but we won't get to that just yet. And I tried to make Aerin a little less annoying. Do give your opinion on how far I've done. Next three or so chapters will be Eirik's back-story, and we'll have _more_ action [if a brawl with Maul and hacking off a thief's hand aren't enough for you])  
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	3. Helgen

**(AN: I almost forgot to mention a few little things about the last chapter. I described the Bee and Bard as dark and stuffy because that's how it comes off to me. There are no bards in Riften and so no music, nothing to really bring out any mirth. Especially considering how far Riften is down the tubes, it would make sense that the people in the bar don't go there for a jolly time with stories and tales of the brave, but to drown their sorrows in Black-Briar mead, thereby keeping alive the machine that's driving them under. That's why I had Aerin refer to it derogatorily.)  
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**(Also, yes, I used a common expletive "Go to hell!" It was mostly done out of familiarity because, no matter which way I put it, "Go to Sovngarde" sounded like a good thing and "Go to Oblivion" sounded silly, like in _Battlestar Galactica_ when they say "frack" instead of "fuck" [i'm not part of that fandom yet, sorry]. So yes, any other usages of "Go to hell!" refer to Oblivion, not the Judeo-Christian hell. I'm sure medieval/Viking age people had more colorful ways of saying it [like in _Skyrim_, where they say "The White take you!" What is the White again?], but the thief in question wasn't an upper-class person who would say something sophisticated like that.)  
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**(Some artistic license has been taken with this chapter, the intro to _Skyrim_, but it's mostly to show you, reader, how I felt when playing through for the first time and why I made the decisions I made, as you will see Eirik making them first-hand in this story.)  
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* * *

**Helgen**

The cart rattled along slowly. The constant bumping against the rocks in the road had ceased. But soon it would reach its end, Eirik knew, and when it did, it would be the end for him. As he looked about, he saw that those in the cart with him were fellow Nords. At his right was the tallest one, bound like him but gagged as well. The one directly across from him had hair the color of straw, but his gaze was warm and brotherly. The last one, a tiny thing, barely worthy of being called a Nord, was shivering and looked on the others with disdain.

"Hey you," the straw-haired man said to Eirik. "You're finally awake."

"What happened?" Eirik asked.

"You were trying to cross the border, looks like," the straw-haired Nord said. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, just like the rest of us."

"Damn you Stormcloaks!" the scrawny one bit back. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, the Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I would have stolen that horse and be half-way to Hammerfell." He looked at Eirik. "You and me, we shouldn't even be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!"

"I have more honor than you do, horse-thief," Eirik replied grimly.

"Still, we should not be quarreling among ourselves," the straw-headed one said. "We're all brothers in binds now."

"Shut up back there!" the Imperial driver shouted back at them.

The cart rattled on quietly for a few more minutes, the only sound the wheels crunching through light snow and the occasional neighing of the horses before and behind the cart. It seemed the Empire wasn't taking any chances with these prisoners.

"What's wrong with you, longshanks?" the thief asked the gagged Nord.

"Watch your tongue!" straw-head shouted. "You're in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King of Skyrim."

"The Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the rebellion?" the thief asked, looking at the silent Nord. Eirik reassessed him again. He was certainly taller than all three of them. His hair was dirty gold and he had a short beard upon his face. But his eyes were so deep and profound: they held so much within, and Eirik was unnerved by what dark secrets those eyes kept.

"Oh, gods, no!" the thief cried out. "If they've captured you, where are they taking us?"

"Wherever it may be," straw-head calmly stated. "Sovngarde awaits."

"No, no, this can't be happening!" whined the thief, shivering even more violently. "This isn't happening!"

"Hey, horse-thief, what village are you from?" straw-head asked.

"Why do _you_ care?" retorted the thief.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," straw-head replied.

"Rorikstead, I'm...I'm from Rorikstead," nervously replied the thief.

Just then, Eirik looked out from the cart and saw the small village of Helgen appearing from out of the trees. Straw-head was silent, but the horse-thief was invoking the names of the eight legal Divines for protection. As they rode through they saw a few horsemen ride up to meet the cart. At their head was an impressive man, even by Nord standards. He was Cyrodilian, tall of stature with a fair complexion, shapely limbs, a somewhat full face and keen black eyes. His hair was short-cropped, like most of those from Cyrodil, and had started turning gray many years before. On the other horses were several figures in black robes and hoods. Eirik saw their faces briefly. If the Cyrodilian was impressive by Nord standards, these were the exact opposite. Long faces they had, with sallow skin and slanted eyes that made them look all the more grim and wicked.

"General Tullius and the Thalmor," straw-head spat. "Come to gloat at our lowest point." But he didn't stay long on the subject, for now he was reminiscing about Helgen and some girl and an brewer named Vilod, and how the Imperial walls and towers no longer made him feel safe. Several of the townsfolk came out to ogle at the prisoners, and soon a crowd was gathered around the town-square. An angry voice shouted to drivers to unload the prisoners.

"Why are we stopping?" the thief asked.

"Why do you think?" straw-head replied. "End of the line."

"Alright, you scum, get on out!" the angry voice shouted. Eirik looked to see who it belonged to and saw a short Cyrodilian woman dressed in heavy armor. Her voice, however, sounded like she had once trained Imperial soldiers. It was harsh and uncouth, like the screeching of carrion-birds.

"Let's go, friend," straw-head said to Eirik. "Don't want to keep the gods waiting for us."

"No, wait!" the thief begged. "We're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief," straw-head said as the cart was opened up and the prisoners were being unloaded.

"You've got to tell them, we weren't with you! This is a mistake!" the thief continued. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Eirik saw that another wagon had been brought up with several more to be executed. He noticed that they were all wearing the same clothes: a surcoat of blue over plain leather armor. They stood in two lines before the Cyrodilian woman, who had next to her a desk with a Nord in Imperial garb with ink and parchment. His duty it was to check their prisoner roster to see if everyone was accounted for and no escapes had taken place (quite unlikely, due to the heavy amount of security they had).

"Empire loves their damn lists," straw-head whispered to Eirik.

"When your name is called," the angry Cyrodilian captain shouted at the prisoners. "Step forward. One at a time!"

Out of the corner of his left eye, Eirik saw the cavalry standing at attention. The one whom straw-head had referred to as General Tullius was receiving whispered instructions from one of the sallow-skinned elves, for elves they were: the Thalmor, the confederacy of the Aldmeri Dominion that still held Skyrim in an iron grip.

"Wait!" General Tullius shouted, pointing at Ulfric. "Get him out of the line. I want him executed last: let him see all these bastards die for his lost cause before he goes to Oblivion."

"Yes, general!" the captain bowed, then turned an angry eye to Ulfric. "Step forward, traitor!"

"It's been an honor serving you, my Jarl," straw-head said.

Ulfric was led aside, guarded by several Imperial soldiers, while the reading of the list went on. First was Arn of Morthal, then Bjorn of Ivarstead. Then Fjoll of Rorikstead, Inga of Windhelm and Jorn of Dawnstar. Then the Nord at the desk called for Lokir of Rorikstead, and the thief came shuffling towards the bench. Eirik noticed that the ground upon which he had been standing had a dark stain upon it.

"No," Lokir the horse-thief whined, as he was being dragged forward. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

"The Empire does what it pleases, horse-thief!" shouted the captain.

Suddenly, the thief pushed one of the guards aside with his body and set off down the way the carts had come. But he did not get far: the captain ordered archers hidden in the tower to shoot him down. She then turned a disdainful eye at the other prisoners.

"Anyone else feeling like running?" she shouted. "Step forward!"

Next on the list was Ralof of Riverwood, and straw-head stepped forward, into line to receive his allotted fate. Then came Skadir and Sigrun of Karthwasten, brother and sister, who had joined the Stormcloak rebellion. Eirik saw then step forward one by one, until he was the last one remaining. For a moment, he felt that he would not be killed.

"Wait!" the Nord at the desk said. He then pointed to Eirik. "You there, step forward." Eirik complied, towering over his fellow Nord. "Who are you?"

"Eirik of Falkreath," was the reply.

"You picked a bad time to come home, kinsmen," the Nord said grimly, checking the list over. He then turned to the captain. "What should we do, captain? He's not on the list."

"Kill him anyway," she returned. "Put him after Bjorn!"

The Nord turned back to Eirik. "At least you'll die back home, kinsmen."

"Cut the chatter, Hadvar!" the captain shouted, then turned to Eirik, looking up at him. "Follow me, but not too close. You're not on the list, so it doesn't matter which way you die, so long as you die. This way!"

Eirik followed on after the captain as she led him towards the front of the line. Nearby, he saw General Tullius talking down to Ulfric from atop his horse.

"They call you a hero," Tullius said smugly. "Bah! A hero doesn't kill his king with the power of the Voice and seek to usurp his throne!" Ulfric tried to speak, but could not through his gag. Tullius laughed. "Can't speak, can you? And why should you? There's no excuse for your treason! No defense for your actions!"

Eirik did not like this. At the very least, Ulfric should be allowed to defend himself with his words, but instead he had been gagged, so that he would not have the chance to defend himself. Such a dishonorable method did not sit with Eirik.

"You've brought nothing but chaos with your bloody civil war," Tullius continued. "Now you're going to die like a dog, and the Empire will restore peace and security to this gods-forsaken land." Suddenly, there was the sound of something echoing from the hills above. It sounded like a roar. Mammoths were native to Skyrim, but none had been seen this far into the hills.

"General, what was that?" Hadvar asked fearfully.

"It's nothing," Tullius shook his head. "Carry on."

"Yes, my general!" the captain saluted proudly. She then turned to the nearby priest, recognizable by the golden robes, and asked her to proceed with the last rites. While the priestess began invoking the name of Arkay, the first prisoner, Arn, was brought to the block. He said nothing as he knelt upon the block, nor were any last words spoken before the headsmen brought the ax-blade down upon his neck and ended his life. From those gathered about came cheers and laughter and cries of joy. Then Bjorn, a large Nord, was brought forth. He would not go down quietly.

"For the love of Talos," Bjorn exclaimed. "Shut up and get this over with!"

"Blasphemy!" one of the dark-hooded Thalmor cried. A nearby Imperial soldier struck Bjorn down upon his knees.

"Do you not wish me to read your rites, my son?" the priestess asked Bjorn.

"I'm eager to be in Sovngarde," Bjorn replied.

"As you wish," the priestess bowed.

Bjorn was rising to his feet, walking towards the block, when the captain kicked him the rest of the way. He knelt his head upon it, then said his last words: "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial dogs! Can you say the same?"

Eirik found his heart moved by Bjorn's courage and defiance, even in the face of inevitable death. That was the way of all true Nords: never give up, never surrender, never ask for quarter, not even if a sword blade lies at your neck. Face your end with pride and dignity, knowing that Sovngarde awaits the fallen warrior. Bjorn never faltered, not as the ax was lifted to his head. With a deafening thud, his life also was ended.

"Bastards!" shouted Sigrun of Karthwasten. Someone from the crowd threw rotten food in her face as they cried out in joy that justice had been done.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof, who stood at Eirik's left-hand, stated.

Eirik was suddenly brought before the chopping block and forced down. For a moment, everyone halted. The roar sounded again, nearer and louder. Eyes searched this way and that, in hopes of discovering what was making that noise. Only the captain, it seemed, was unperturbed by whatever was making the noise. Eirik, at last, laid his head on the chopping block, waiting for death to claim him, to be with his ancestors.

Suddenly, everyone was running scared. The crowds were running for cover back to their houses and the Imperial soldiers drew their weapons and seemed no longer involved with the execution. From where Eirik lay with his head on the block, he could see the Imperial tower in the midst of the town-square. Suddenly a big shape lighted upon it. It was massive, neck as thick as the trunk of an oak, wingspan as long as a longhouse, covered all in black scales, with two great horns upon its head. He had heard the legends, but never believed that he might actually see one, or that they even existed.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" the dragon growled.

Everyone before him fell backwards, including Eirik from the chopping block. All around, he could hear the Imperials running scared and General Tullius barking out orders. In the confusion, Eirik could not discern much of anything, save that there was fire about and people were flying in all directions. Suddenly, he felt a pair of strong hands placed upon his shoulder.

"Come on, friend!" Ralof's voice sounded over the din. "The gods won't give us another chance. Let's go!"

* * *

**(AN: I think that is a good place to stop as any.)**

**(While I will endeavor to get as much of the dialogue from the game in my story as possible, some of it will be original work or the text in my own words. Most of this is because I'm so far now [almost 45] that I can't remember what happened at level 1, not with college and the band I'm in and all the other stuff I have to remember. I hope you forgive me.)  
**

**(Boom, the dragon showed up! And yes, once he showed up, he did use the "Unrelenting Force" shout, so that's historically accurate.)  
**


	4. The Rat

**(AN: A brief pause to introduce a whole new subplot which isn't in the game. There will be some additions which will help the story along, as well as the character development. It seems, imo, rather silly that all you need is an Amulet of Mara and you have no need for courtship or bonding, you can pretty much choose whoever you wish to wed.)  
**

**(I've also changed Keerava's name, so that it sounds more like those of a typical Argonian. Just a few pointers there, I'll have more in the end author's note. Please read on)  
**

* * *

**The Rat**

"A dragon?" Mjoll exclaimed. "I can't believe that's possible! I've heard all the stories, and they're not supposed to exist, not now at least."

"What I don't understand," Aerin spoke up, turning to Eirik. "Is why the Empire would just wantonly execute you without a trial."

"I'm a Nord," Eirik said. "The Stormcloaks are made up of Nords, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But that's hardly fair!" Aerin commented. "The Empire never accuses a person of a crime simply because of their race."

"Well, that was not the case at Helgen, friend," Eirik sighed. He then turned to Mjoll. "What do you think?"

"Hmm?" she queried. "I'm sorry, I was not paying attention. I was thinking about the people of Riften and how much they have suffered."

"Does the political climate of Skyrim mean nothing to you?" Eirik asked. "What of the Nords, your own people?"

"And what of Riften?" Mjoll returned. "Politics are precisely what put them into this situation. Maven Black-Briar has the Jarl in her pocket. Every time the Thieves Guild does something in the city, nothing is done about it. The Jarl chooses to turn the other way, saying that everything is under control when it isn't. And as for this rebellion, while the Jarl supports the Stormcloaks, she constantly complains that she doesn't have enough money to help the rebellion and the people. If you ask me, I think her money is going someplace other than the coffers of the Stormcloaks all-together."

"Take it up with the Jarl, not me," Eirik said.

"I have tried to do just that, countless times," Mjoll continued. "She says that everything is under control and denies all claims of corruption. I fear there is no help to come from the Jarl."

"Then why not remove the Jarl?" Eirik suggested.

"Never!" Mjoll retorted. "That would make us no different than the Thieves Guild, who betray one another for profit. If there is any change to be brought about in Riften, it must be done through the legal channels."

"What about Maven Black-Briar?" Eirik asked. "What would it take to bring her down?"

"You can't take her down, believe me, I've tried," Mjoll said. "She's too influential, there would be too much evidence needed to be gathered."

"Such as?" Eirik asked.

"Undeniable evidence of treason on her part," Mjoll commented after a long pause. "Something that would force the Jarl to action."

Eirik was quiet as he considered this for a while, then Mjoll went about her meal. Aerin, meanwhile, was looking at the doors and those among the crowd.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, friend," he said to Eirik. "We should really get going, Mjoll."

"Hmm?"

"Yes, going, now," he whispered.

"If you insist," she said, rising from her seat. "I hope to see you again before you leave Riften, Eirik. It was nice talking with you."

"Same," Eirik replied.

"Perhaps next time we meet," Mjoll added. "You may continue your story about how you escaped the dragon at Helgen."

"Perhaps," he returned.

"Mjoll, we really have to go _now!_"

The two left quickly, leaving Eirik to ponder why they had suddenly left. He then left the table in search of Kee-Rava, to whom he would pay ten septims for to rent a room for the night. The journey here from Riverwood had been tiresome and the tall, strong Nord needed to rest. He found Kee-Rava and paid his gold, then followed the Argonian up the stairs to the second level, where she showed him to his room.

"Just make sure you're out by mid-day," she said, handing Eirik the key for the night.

* * *

That night, asleep in his bed, Eirik's sleep was disturbed by nightmares. He dreamed he was back in Helgen, but the dragon was not there and the ax came down on his head. Then, in and out of his dreams, there came a draugr woman with eyes that burned with a fell fire. Though her ancient body did not move, he heard words in his head, urging him to kill, kill, kill. Cold hands were reaching up at him from out of the darkness, reaching, groping for something...

It was then that Eirik awoke, and found that the hands were real. Swiftly, he reached a hand to them and a voice squealed in fright. The candles had burned out, but Eirik could almost feel that he was not alone, to say nothing of the wrist firmly caught in his hand.

"What are you doing in my room at night?" he asked.

"You've offended the wrong people, stranger," the voice returned. "Someone wants you out of the picture: dead."

"Who?"

"I don't know, I never saw a face," the other one whined. "I was handed a sack of gold and told to find you and give you a message."

"You sure picked a strange time to give it," Eirik commented facetiously.

"My employers tell you to watch your back," said the voice. "If you continue as you've begun, you'll wind up dead before long."

Eirik seized the man's hand tightly with the hand around his wrist and pushed it back. It hit the face and then the sound of a body slumping to the ground was heard. The intruder was out cold. With a satisfied grunt, Eirik returned to his bed of straw and fur blankets.

* * *

**(AN: Tried to get a bit of action going, as well as some other things as well. Once, of course, we get into the next chapter, the plot will thicken greatly.)**

**(I'm pretty sure that Mjoll has little regard for anything going on outside of Riften, and that is shown in this story [but will change, hopefully]. Strangely enough, Aerin is an Imperial [or Cyrodilian, as I refer to them, which is probably incorrect, but seems better than just generalizing that everyone from Cyrodil is part of the Empire], and yet I wonder which side he would take. Siding with his people would see the Thieves Guild in power, which is what Mjoll does NOT want.)  
**


	5. The Plot

**(AN: Yay, reviews!)  
**

**(Yes, this will be pro-Stormcloak, sorry [i'll explain in the lower author's note]. The assassin was sent precisely because Eirik assaulted a Thieves Guild member, so his assault didn't go unnoticed. As far as I can guess, the guards of Riften are paid to look the other way when Thieves Guild business goes down, which is why they weren't so vigilant. Maybe I'll change that in this chapter. As for the fist to the face, I was thinking that maybe our Dragonborn is really mighty and could knock someone out like that. Maybe it was too silly, I'll address that in this chapter, don't worry.)  
**

* * *

**The Plot**

Eirik's night was not as easy as it had appeared. The assassin woke up shortly and this time, he had time to draw out his knife. It was dark and Eirik received a wound or two, but the assassin was still overcome. So it was that, early that morning, Eirik walked over to the room belonging to the land-lord and lady, Talen-Jei and Kee-Rava. The two were awoken that morning by a loud pounding on the door. Talen-Jei, a green-scaled Argonian, answered the door and saw, to his surprise, a tall Nord with cuts across his arms and chest and behind him another smaller one, with the bigger one's hand around his neck.

"You owe me some answers," Eirik said.

"Uh, I don't know what you mean," Talen-Jei replied.

"I think you know," Eirik replied. "How does an assassin get inside your inn without waking anyone else but the one he was designed to kill?"

"A lot of people come in during the day," Talen-Jei stated. "Maybe I didn't catch his face, or that he was an assassin."

"Hmm," Eirik nodded. "Get rid of him, someway or another."

"You'll have to take that up with the city guards," Talen-Jei replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to return to sleep."

Eirik grumbled, then urged the thief on and went outside. Already, the city guards were running their rounds as the morning light as just starting to rise over the mountains. Eirik approached the nearest one.

"This man broke into my room at the inn last night and attacked me," Eirik said.

"What proof do you have?" the guard asked.

"Besides the knife-wounds," Eirik added, then produced the thief's knife. "And the knife that made them, still with the blood upon it."

Just then, a noble-looking Cyrodilian woman appeared walking down the streets and came upon the scene. She was dressed as Aerin had been, had had dark hair like his own. Her skin, however, was lighter and her expression meaner. When she approached, the guard stood at attention.

"And what are you doing?" she asked the guard. "This man is one of my associates. I sent him to the Bee and Barb to broker new prices for our mead. Release him at once."

"He attacked me," Eirik stated.

"That's highly unlikely," the woman said. "Unless you attacked him first." She then turned to the assassin. "Isn't that what happened?"

"Yes," he nodded his head. "Yes! I was taken unawares! I tried to defend myself, but he was too strong."

"You see?" the woman asked the guard. "Everything is under control. Release him into my custody."

"Do as she says, kinsman," the guard said to Eirik. "And no more attacking people in the dead of night. I'll see you in the jail if you try that again."

Eirik grumbled as he removed his hand from the assassin's throat and gave him to the woman. As they were walking away, he could hear the woman speaking aloud to the guard.

"...lucky I was here," she said. "Was on my way to a meeting with the Jarl when I saw this. If only I had been there sooner."

Then he saw them step into an alley. Casually, Eirik made his way that way and leaned against the side of the building, as though casually resting himself. In fact, he was listening to everything that was spoken between the two.

"You failed your task and you think you have the gall to ask for a reward!"

"I tried, Lady Black-Briar," the assassin replied. "He was too strong."

"Too strong? You had a knife, he was unarmed!" growled Lady Black-Briar. "By the Eight, you're even more useless than I thought. Should have known better than to send an incompetent burglar to do a real assassin's job."

"But I did get inside his room," quoth the assassin. "And I told him to watch his back."

"And if he's as strong as you say he is," Lady Black-Briar returned. "How much is he going to pay attention to a thief he can overcome with a single hit?"

"I'm sorry, my lady!"

"Get out of my sight," she said. "I have too much to do today. I have to speak with the Jarl and then be down in the Ratways for my next meeting by noon."

"There you are!" a voice shouted so loudly that even the hand on Eirik's shoulder would have made him jump. He turned about and readied his fist, only to see Aerin with both hands raised and an uneasy laugh of his face.

"Haha, I surrender!" he said. "It's just me! By Mara's name, when did you get all jumpy?"

"I was attacked last night," Eirik replied, lowering his fists.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Aerin replied. "Unfortunately, that's the way of things these days. Listen, I just wanted to say a few things before you left today."

"I'm not leaving today," Eirik shook his head. "I have business in the Ratway."

Aerin looked about and then lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you would be ruled by my council, I should caution you about going in there again. The Thieves Guild has the tightest grip on that area, where the poor and destitute have nowhere else to go. It's like a prison down there."

"Exactly," Eirik nodded. "That's why I need to go down there. A friend of mine is imprisoned there."

"You're a good man, risking all that for a friend," Aerin said. "Also, well, if it's not too much trouble to ask..."

"Out with it."

"I don't think Mjoll would like me telling you this," Aerin stated. "But do you remember her mentioning Grimsever?"

"The sword she lost in a Dwemer ruin?"

"The same," Aerin began. "I know it would mean the world to her if you returned it to her. She's too humble to ask anyone to do it, and she knows all too well about the dangers of that place. Mzinchaleft, it's called. Rather far away, actually; in the Pale, far to the north. I would have gone there myself and gotten it years ago, but, well, let's face it, Riften is my home and I was on business in Dawnstar when I found her."

"You don't want to do it yourself?" Eirik asked.

"No, not like that," he dismissed. "I mean, it would mean the world to Mjoll, it's just that I don't want her getting the wrong ideas, do you know what I'm saying?"

"No, you're her friend. Wouldn't she be glad to see you do this for her?"

"It's more than that!" Aerin sighed. "Listen, that sword was the last remnant of her family. She gave up her life of adventures because she lost it. Returning it would be more than just the deed of a friend. But I can't give that to her. It's complicated. I like Mjoll as a friend and protector of this city, but only that much."

Eirik was silent for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully for a few moments. After what seemed like a long time, he gave his response.

"Next time I'm in the Pale, I'll see what I can do," Eirik nodded. "But I still feel that you should be the one to do this."

"I'm her friend, friend," Aerin stated. "I would do anything to make her happy...but there are some limits even I won't go to." He sighed again. "Divines bless you."

"And to you," Eirik nodded and Aerin started walking away. "Wait! How do I find the Ratways?"

"Oh, that's easy," Aerin said. "The levels just above the water are the Ratways. I hope to see you again. The Ratways are a very dangerous place."

* * *

The sun was out and it was ten o'clock when Eirik had retrieved his armor and weapons from his room in the Bee and Barb - after a hearty breakfast. He then made his way down the streets, wary eyes looking to every alley and every shadow. He would not be caught unawares this time.

The way to the Ratway, Eirik found, was easy to find. All he had to do was look for the smell of filth, beer and a third scent that was strangest of all. It was sweet and ethereal at first, but then became foul upon further detection, like rotten eggs. The closer he came to this scent, he began seeing more and more people in rags, covered in filth. Some of them had bottles of mead from which they drank, while others had their faces bent down over strange bottles that emitted the sickly-sweet smell that turned foul.

He then found the wooden stairways that led to the lower levels, into the Ratways. Here it was impossible to find someone, for people were crowded and lying in the streets almost everywhere. Here the streets were not made of wood, but of stone. Everything was stone, even the roof of the Ratways, which served as the foundation for the top streets of Riften. All were stone, dark, cold, filthy stone, dripping with slime and covered in blood and excrement.

Eirik kept his hand near his sword, for he saw many of the people here eying him with wicked intent. Theft would hardly be something new to them, so he made sure that his sword was nearby and ready. As he walked down the crowded alleyways, he saw a detachment of city guards making their way through the Ratway. He ducked aside and watched them go by, with a single hooded figure in their midst. Though he was large, Eirik had some brains and could guess that whoever was walking disguised into the Ratway was someone who didn't want to be noticed, preferably because they had something to lose.

He followed the hooded figure and the city guards into a place where there were fewer people. Unfortunately, the people here were armed and had fouler expressions than those above. From a sign above, Eirik guessed that they were outside of another inn. The sign had a flagon of mead with two crossed daggers behind it, with the name 'The Ragged Flagon' carved above the symbol. Inside, Eirik saw the hooded figure sit down at a table with someone he had seen earlier that day.

"You're late," the woman said to the hooded figure.

"I didn't know I operated on your time-table, Maven Black-Briar," the figure said, removing his hood. It was a scrawny Nord with short, black hair and a thin mustache that curled at the ends.

"Everyone in Riften does," Maven replied.

"What business is so important that you disturb the son of a Jarl?" the other one asked in a sneering, drawling voice.

"You know your mother's stance on the war, correct?" Maven asked.

"Yes," the Jarl's son grumbled. "Fortunately, Divines be praised, she's begun to see that traitor for what he really is: a stupid, war-mongering Nord, thirsty for power and glory that he assassinated King Torygg."

"You don't need to preach to me, boy," Maven replied. "This war means nothing to me. I see profit in Riften regardless of who's in charge. Despite what you may say, your mother, the Jarl, still supports Ulfric Stormcloak. But there's more. This morning, I received a messenger from Solitude: a week ago, someone broke into the Thalmor Embassy."

"So?" the Jarl's son asked. "What concern is that of ours? Let the Thalmor take care of their own problems."

"Pay attention, you fool!" Maven growled.

"You can't talk to me like that!" the Jarl's son retorted.

"Why not?" Maven asked threateningly. "I own this city and the half I don't are so afraid of me, they won't lift a finger. Who will you turn to if I become your enemy?" The Jarl's son grumbled in compliance. "Smart man. Now, Saerlund, as I was saying, the Thalmor did not capture the thief, but they caught one of his accomplices. From what I hear, he ratted accomplice out. Seems these elves have less loyalty than I thought, even among thieves."

Eirik, sitting at a table at the far end of the room, nearest the door, had to bite his tongue when he heard this. The 'accomplice', a Bosmer named Malborn, had not told them everything at the first go. The Thalmor had tortured him to death, a fellow elf, just to get information out of him. He hadn't told everything, but there were some things that they did get out of him.

"...something about one of the Blades," Maven said.

"That's preposterous!" exclaimed Saerlund with a laugh. "The Blades were wiped out years ago."

"So the stories say," Maven replied. "But the letter I had said that the Thalmor expected one of the Blades to be in hiding here in the Warrens."

Eirik held his peace again, but just barely. This was what he had been searching for, and now he had found it. The Blades were the ones he had heard about and told to find by the innkeeper in Riverwood. But now he knew that the Thalmor were after him as well. He was about to leave, when he saw that Maven and Saerlund were still talking.

"You own the Ratways," Saerlund said proudly. "I don't see why this is any concern of mine."

"My friends in Cyrodiil have been pressuring me to hand Riften over to the Empire," Maven said. "I've received more than my fair share of Imperial legates, 'requesting' that I take the city over for them."

"Well, isn't that good?" Saerlund asked. "With Riften under rightful Imperial control, it will be a two day march to bring down the walls of Windhelm and execute the traitor Ulfric!" He spat when he said his name.

"I told you already," Maven replied. "This war means nothing to me. My people can racket Stormcloak gold as much as Imperial gold with no one being the wiser. But they're getting more and more insistent. Some have even used threats."

"You, afraid of threats?" laughed Saerlund. "Aren't you Maven Black-Briar, friend of the Thalmor, Thieves Guild, the Dark Brotherhood and the true ruler of Riften?"

"I'm not a fool!" hissed Maven. "I got my so-called 'friends' because I knew their weaknesses, money. But I also know their strengths. Nevertheless," She held up her hand to silence Saerlund. "Never the less, I refuse to get involved in this petty cock-fight. So I will ask you to have this honor?"

"Me?" Saerlund asked.

"Why not?" Maven asked. "You're close to the Jarl, you can give the Empire information they need. Just tell them you have my blessing and everything will be..."

"Hey!" a large Cyrodilian shouted. "You're not supposed to be here!"

Eirik reached his hand for his sword as he saw some of the other people in the tavern closing hands about their weapons and slowly approaching him. He didn't know how many of them it would take to bring him down, but by Talos, he wasn't ready to find out today.

* * *

**(AN: Yay, new chapter and a little bit of that subplot of which I mentioned.)**

**(I haven't officially stated it yet, but here's my hypothesis on why Aerin doesn't fancy Mjoll romantically. He's gay. Same-sex marriages are okay in Tamriel [at least in _Skyrim_], so there wouldn't be the stigma that being gay would have in our world, he just wouldn't be interested in Mjoll as a romantic partner because he's not interested in women as romantic partners. If that doesn't work, tell me. I intentionally left it ambiguous in case that explanation was not liked.)  
**

**(Now, about the Stormcloaks...when I learned that the Thalmor and the Empire were trying to abolish Talos worship for the Nords of Skyrim, I immediately drew in my mind a connection between that and the Catholic kingdoms of Europe trying to abolish Odin and Thor worship for the Nordic people of Scandinavia in real life history. As a huge fan of all things Norse, my heart went out to the Stormcloaks. Religious freedom for Skyrim!)  
**


	6. The Family Black Briar

**(AN: Why can't Maul be killed? Because he's essential! Lol, that will, of course, change in this story. Also, I have a little interesting back-story about why Mjoll is essential. But I won't give that away, you'll just have to see that for yourself.)  
**

**(I can't comment on Ulfric's leadership qualities, I'd have to re-research what goes on in Windhelm. I mean, he's a bit stronger than Laila the Law-giver, but he is running a war, and that takes up one's time. I don't know. If he were _really_ weak, Tullius could have walked into Windhelm and shouted him to pieces [I'm sorry, was that too soon?])  
**

**(Enjoy this chapter and the action. There is a bit of a silly moment, but it's only there to show why, even in _Skyrim_, I refuse to wear horned helmets. They weren't practical for the real-life vikings and not here either [i know that makes the pic seem silly, but that pic is so epic, I could excuse the horns])  
**

* * *

**The Family Black-Briar**

Eirik drew his great-sword and stared them down one by one. He cut quite an intimidating figure, and sent some of them shaking in their boots. But these sell-swords were not cut from the same cloth as the weak assassin who had sneaked into his room the other night. Most of them just growled back at him, banging their swords, maces and axes against their shields or making wolf-howls that echoed throughout the cavernous tavern.

One of them, an Imperial with a sword and shield, was the first to run at Eirik. This was too easy, Eirik thought. He blocked the oncoming blow, then seized the Cyrodilian mercenary by one of the horns of his helmet and kicked him in the groin with his knee. Down the mercenary went, then Eirik took his sword with both hands and thrust it down into the mercenary until he heard wood breaking.

"Come on, then!" a short, squat Nord with a war-hammer shouted. "You wanna piece of me, long-shanks?"

Eirik withdrew his sword from the body of the dead Cyrodilian, then slowly made his way toward the Nord, who was shouting and pounding the staff of his war-hammer upon the ground loudly. For one moment, Eirik caught a glimmer of triumph in the short man's eye.

"_Tiid__!_" Eirik shouted.

The moment became a minute as Eirik looked about him. Ever since Korvanjund, another shout of the Dragon language had been imprinted upon his mind. All of time seemed to slow down to a crawl. The mercenaries were halted, neither shouting nor moving much. Eirik turned his head behind him and saw an assassin coming behind him, dagger raised to stab Eirik in the back. He gripped his great-sword with both hands, hoping he could make every last instant count...

Time resumed its natural flow, and the Breton assassin groaned as he made what would have been a clean strike to the Nord's unprotected back, only to find a sword blade where there had been none but a moment ago. He fell upon the blade, gasping as his lung was punctured. With a thrust, Eirik drew the sword out and bashed the squat Nord with its pommel.

Suddenly, someone threw sand in Eirik's face and he could not see. While he was blinded, huge hands grabbed him from behind. Through tears, he could see the Cyrodilian who had spotted him walking through the mercenaries. He felt his fist when it struck him in the face.

"You bastard," Eirik replied. "Can't fight me on your own, so you have your lackeys hold my hands while you strike me like a b..."

The Cyrodilian struck Eirik again on the face, sighing happily.

"You know what they call me?" the Cyrodilian asked.

"The big b*tch of Cyrodiil?" Eirik taunted, which earned him a kick in his own groin.

"They call me Dirge," the Cyrodilian replied. "'Cuz my voice is the last thing you hear before you die."

"That's enough, Dirge," the voice of Maven Black-Briar spoke. Dirge spat in Eirik's face, then walked away as he was ordered. The Cyrodilian woman approached Eirik with a haughty look on her face.

"Oh, by the Eight!" she laughed. "It can't be! You! So, you broke into the Thalmor Embassy, and now you're here, picking fights with my people and assaulting Thieves Guild members. I had to make you pay for that, which is why I had Per break into your room at the Bee and Barb. Should have chosen Maul, perhaps you'd have learned your lesson."

"You're not the leader of the Thieves Guild," Eirik replied.

"Oh yes, I let Mercer Frey take all the glory and boss everyone around," Maven said. "But he knows that I have powerful friends in the Dark Brotherhood, and they haven't had a Listener in centuries. A few hundred septims and I could easily make myself leader of the Thieves Guild whenever I wanted."

"Is that why you're going to kill the Blades?" Eirik asked. "Because the Thalmor paid you to do it?"

"Of course," she replied. "Good business, after all."

"Have you no honor?" Eirik replied.

"Oh, you stupid Nords and your honor," Maven sneered. "When will you ever learn? Honor is for the weak. The Thieves Guild are the future, and in the shadows, the Black-Briar clan will rise."

"To overthrow the Nords and abolish Talos worship?" Eirik asked.

"You're even stupider than I thought," Maven groaned. "I don't give a damn about Talos or Ulfric or this bloody civil war. The fact is that the Thalmor let Ulfric escape, they _want_ this war to happen. You're the fool for siding with a traitor."

"We will worship who we will," Eirik replied. "Every last Nord will die to defend what is rightfully theirs."

Maven laughed. "You naive little fool. Your people love gold as much as the Empire does, as much as anyone does, and they can be easily bought. The Thalmor know this, which is why I choose to side with them. Better to be at the left hand of a Daedra than in their way, as the old saying goes."

Eirik said nothing. Maven smiled, then turned about and ordered the Nord and the Cyrodilian to finish him off. The Nord Maul threw Eirik face down to the floor.

"Now what was that you said about my brother?" he asked.

"Brother?" Eirik replied, looking up at Maul. "You're related to that Imperial scum?"

"Rat!" Dirge shouted, kicking Eirik in the face.

"Ha!" Eirik retorted, spitting blood onto the floor. "I'll wager that was a fine night. Your mother got to sample the cocks of the sons of Cyrodiil and Sky..." Both Dirge and Maul kicked him at once.

"Your foul words will end, whelp!" Maul growled.

"Why?" Eirik asked. "That's how a true Nord behaves himself, right? Smiling and laughing in the face of death?" He pushed himself up to his knees. "Or would you rather me on my knees and begging, like you Imperials before the swords of the Thalmor?"

"You know nothing of this matter, scum!" Dirge said, punching him four times over.

"You want me to beg?" Eirik laughed. "Then by the Nine, why don't you make me?"

The two attacked him with a renewed fury, until Eirik's whole world was spinning from one blow after another. His mouth was full of blood and he ached all over. Yet he was defiant until the very end.

"Why don't you just give up already?" Dirge shouted.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Just then, he heard a voice on the edge of his hearing, reply to Maul's taunt with these words: "A true Nord never surrenders."

"It's you again," Maul said. "I should have known this milk-drinker couldn't go anywhere without his wet nurse."

Suddenly, one of the dead bodies was thrown at Dirge, who was knocked to the floor. Maul then reached for Eirik's great-sword, but the weakened warrior kicked the Nord's face with his foot. Then, a yellow-ish blur jumped Maul and knocked him to the ground. As Eirik pushed himself up, he saw that the large Nord was held in a head-lock while the yellow-gold thing was striking him over and over. For a moment, Eirik thought of a Khajiit, and then he heard the voice again.

"What was that you said about milk-drinkers, Maul?" the proud voice of Mjoll returned merrily.

"Just you try that again, b*tch!" Maul grunted. Mjoll punched him in the face.

"You're a disgrace to your people," she said. She heaved the warrior aside and then turned to Eirik. "Are you insane? Taking on the Thieves Guild all by yourself, and in the middle of the Ratways!"

"I was looking for someone," Eirik replied.

"Come, up you go, now," she said, offering him her hand. With a grumble, he gave her his hand and stood the rest of the way up. It was then that he noticed the others were gone.

"Where did they go?"

"They're the Thieves Guild," Mjoll replied. "They're cowards, won't put up a fight against anyone with real strength."

"I didn't know you could fight," Eirik began. "Well, I guessed you could, from that axe you carry, but I didn't know..."

"Why do you think they call me 'Lioness?'" Mjoll asked with a smile.

* * *

**(AN: Yay, it's Mjoll to the rescue! That's gonna make our hero view her in a new light)**

**(Also, I don't know if I should have gone ahead with making Eirik talk shit to Maul and Dirge. But they're called brothers in canon, yet Maul is a Nord and Dirge is from Cyrodiil. Besides, that is the way of Norsemen, to taunt their captors and face death without fear or terror. So, obviously, he laughs in the face of death and mocks his tormentors because they're not "killing him fast enough." Lol, it's good to be a bad-ass Nord.)  
**

**(I'll get back to the main story, but I wanted Eirik to respect Mjoll as a warrior. She respects him because of his view on the Thieves Guild, I wanted that respect to be reciprocated. Don't worry, Esbern [as performed by Max von Sydow, who played Jesus in _The Greatest Story Ever Told_] will make his appearance in the next chapter)  
**


	7. Esbern of the Blades

**(AN: Lol, you're updating too fast! Oh well, I felt as though I couldn't get them out fast enough, so I'll take my time with this one. Thank you again for your reviews. I haven't ruled _that_ out, just not in this chapter.)  
**

* * *

**Esbern of the Blades**

Mjoll and Eirik went about hiding the bodies from their encounter. They were still in Thieves Guild territory and couldn't afford anything that could be traced back to them once they were gone. They didn't speak to each other while they hid the bodies, but once all was clear, and they had cleaned blood off their hands, Mjoll asked the obvious question.

"So, friend, what brings you down here?"

"I'm looking for someone," Eirik replied.

"He must be a terrible person, if he makes his home in the Ratways," Mjoll said. "Either terribly poor or one of the Thieves Guild."

"I don't exactly know," Eirik said. "But I know he's in the Warrens, and the Guild is..."

"The Warrens?" she repeated. "By the Nine, there is no worse place to go in all of Riften than the Warrens. Plainly put, it is one step away from Oblivion."

"That bad, huh?"

"It is a cavern of rock built into the very foundations of Riften," Mjoll began. "The sun's light never shines down there. Riften jail is a finer place than the Warrens, where the skeevers and reprobates cling to the shadows."

"I have to go in there," Eirik reaffirmed. "My friend is in danger. I overheard Maven saying that she wanted him found and killed."

"Killed?" Mjoll asked. "This is an odd play, even for her. The Thieves Guild have not been known to kill people."

"Well, they almost killed me," Eirik said, gesturing to his face.

"Good point," Mjoll nodded. "So, shall we go on, then?"

"'We?'"

"Don't think for a moment that I'm going to let you walk into the Warrens all by yourself."

"I can take care of myself."

"I beg to differ," she replied. "You were almost killed before I showed up. Besides, I've lived here longer than you have. I can be of use to you..."

"Fine," Eirik sighed. "You can come with me, but only to show me the way."

"You know," Mjoll said. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to show some humility every now and then. I _did_ rescue you just now."

"I was doing just fine,"

"If by fine you were about to die," Mjoll commented. "We Nords have always been known to be proud, but you mustn't let it go to your head. We all need help sometimes. I'm not afraid to admit that I needed help, and Aerin helped me. I am forever grateful to him."

"Can we please keep it down?" Eirik whispered. "If the Warrens are as bad as you say they are, I'd like to go in secret."

"Oh, right," Mjoll whispered.

* * *

The Warrens were indeed dark: darker, in fact, than Mjoll had described them. The faint torch-light, flickering and sputtering as anyone passed them by, was barely enough to dispel the gloom an arm's length from its source. Though they both held torches, they could scarce see much farther than a few feet before them. To make things worse, they were fully aware that they were not alone. But with the dim light, any number of foul creatures or pick-pockets might be scurrying about their feet or crawling up behind them, and they would not be aware of their presence until it was far too late.

The two of them came to a place where the stone walls closed all around them. It felt truly like a dungeon here. There were even iron grates closing off certain passageways. But in the dark, Eirik realized, he could sense other things more clearly, or at least he was aware of them more than usual. He could hear foot-steps down a hallway nearby, and voices speaking in Altmeri. He recognized the dialect from the embassy. They were here, inside the Warrens. While he could not speak or understand Altmeri, there were scant words in Nordic that he could understand.

"Thalmor," he whispered to Mjoll. "They've come for Esbern. We should go in cautiously."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because they're the Thalmor," Eirik said. "They have the Empire as their lap-dogs, and it wouldn't be well for the Empire to destroy Riften if one of the Thalmor die in your city's borders."

"Oh, right."

From the halls, the sound of whispering was now becoming louder. They were dividing up into groups, for the two Nords could hear a couple of footsteps every now and then take off and disappear. For one moment, they heard a voice chanting an incantation, and then the crackle of lightning.

"It sounds as though they've come thoroughly prepared," Mjoll said. "They have mages."

"Do you think that scares me?" Eirik whispered back. "I slew a dragon."

"The one at Helgen?" Mjoll asked.

"No, outside of Whiterun," he replied.

Suddenly, he heard one of the Thalmor halt and their footsteps became quiet.

"I'll buy you a drink and tell you the rest of the story," Eirik said. "If we get out of here alive, that is."

"There he is!" an Altmer voice shouted. "It's the agent of the Blades!"

But the Thalmor had little chance once he saw his foe. Eirik ran towards him, running him through with his great-sword. So great was his charge that he lifted the thin-framed Thalmor up off the ground. Then he pushed him off, and heard his body hit the ground some ways below him. Apparently, there was some kind of stair just before them that went downward.

There was a flash of light and all of Eirik's muscles seized up at one moment. His hands were shaking violently, but he was able to turn his face towards where the flash had come from. There would not be a second one.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

The voice of a Thalmor crying out and then hitting the stone wall hard sounded in the dark. But his opponents still outnumbered him. What's more, they had magic on their side and could sense that their opponent was weaker.

"Ha! You wish to defeat me?" a Thalmor voice strained. "Impossible!"

Suddenly, Eirik felt something strike against his armor. His hand reached out and felt something clad in silken robes: definitely not Mjoll. Instinct, more than anything else, told him to use his enemy against him. With his other hand, he seized the body of the Thalmor and dragged it before him. In that moment, the cavernous tunnel was illuminated by another flash of light. Eirik's hands buzzed and tingled painfully, but he was not harmed this time. But that burst of lightning had given away his enemy. He drew out his sword and, trying to remember where the wall and the stairs had been, ran his way down them with his sword in his right hand and his left hand groping for the wall.

"Behold the future, Nordic dog!" shouted the Thalmor mage. "Elven supremacy is the only truth! Down, cur! Grovel at the feet of your masters!"

Eirik was seething as he made his way through the dark. He could hear the elf breathing nervously. She knew, apparently, that her time had come. He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.

"You think you've won?" the Thalmor sneered. "Stupid Nord! Our agents are scouring the Warrens. By one stroke or another, you and your Blades will die!"

The elf never spoke another word again. Following the voice, Eirik swung his sword. It was dark and he missed his mark, but he could still feel the weight of a dead body dragging down his sword. His torch, unfortunately, had been discarded once the fighting had begun. Mjoll came up behind, her own torch in hand, and cast light upon the grim scene. Eirik's sweep had dug into the Thalmor's head at the mouth. It looked wide and grim, but the head hadn't come off. Eirik turned his attention to the soldier, lying forsaken on the ground. He had only been shocked and, Eirik guessed, had probably survived. If the Thalmor mage had been correct and there were others in the Warrens, he could not afford letting them know where they were, and this soldier would surely give away their location.

He dove the blade of his great-sword into the soldier's body, twisting it slightly as he brought it back out. It came out with a sickening _slurch_.

"Masters my ass," Eirik said, sheathing his great-sword.

* * *

Eirik and Mjoll continued more or less without encounter for a long space of time. But the lack of sunlight was starting to tell on both of them. Any fire or torch seemed painfully bright, bringing tears to their eyes. The poor down here were mostly blind and they only spoke in whispers to themselves, with no directions to give. Eventually, Eirik was groping along the walls as though he himself were blind. He felt cold stone for most of the time, until he had gone down at least two levels of stairs. Then he reached a dead end with a door. He knocked at the door, but an old man's voice told him to go away.

"Esbern? Is that you?" Eirik asked. "Open this door, I'm a friend."

"Who?" the old man asked. "No, I'm not Esbern. You must be mistaken, I have no idea who you're talking about!"

"Delphine sent me to find you," Eirik replied.

"Ha! A likely story!" the old man grumbled back.

"'Remember the 30th of Frostfall,'" Eirik said.

There was silence for a moment, only the skittering and squeaking of skeevers down in the farther tunnels could be heard, or the dripping of water from the lake into the Warrens.

"What did you say?" the old man asked.

"'Remember the 30th of Frostfall,'" Eirik repeated.

"Delphine told you this, did she?" the old man asked. "She's alive? Come in, sir! Tell me how you found me and what you know."

"Uh, yes, about that..."

"Oh, don't worry, this will just take a moment," the old man replied. From behind the door, Eirik could hear the old man fumbling with keys that ground in the rusty lock of the door. One after another, the old man attempted to open the door with his keys, with each one failing. At last he found the right one and pulled the door open with a grinding screech.

"There we are," the old man said. "Come in, come in! Make yourself at home. We can talk in here, too many ears outside."

The two walked into the room, and found that it was well-lit with a candle that was more or less easy on their eyes than the torches had been. In its dim light, Eirik could see an old bald man with a gray beard and heavy bags under his eyes.

"Esbern, I presume?" Eirik asked, taking a seat upon a table with an empty mead keg on it.

"Aye, I am Esbern," the old man nodded. "So, Delphine keeps up the fight after all these years? Bah, it's a lost cause. I told her that years ago, thought she would have realized that by now. The end has come, and I'm sick and tired of running."

"But the Thalmor..."

"So what about the Thalmor, huh?" Esbern retorted. "Let them find me, if they can."

"But why give up?" Eirik asked.

"Why give up? I've been in here for years and yet I can see the truth; are you that blind, son?" Esbern began. "Alduin the Destroyer has returned, just as the prophecy foretold. It was foretold that he would come back at the end of the world, devouring the souls from this world as well as from Oblivion and Sovngarde: nothing would be safe from his hunger, not even the dead. I tried to tell them, but the fools wouldn't listen." He sighed. "All I can do now is watch as our doom approaches. It is said that the Dragonborn could be the one to stop Alduin, but there hasn't been a Dragonborn for centuries. The gods, it seems, have finally grown tired of our presumption and constant b*tching and have left us to the mercy of the World-Eater."

The old man's words hung on the thick air, making the gloom seem all the more real. For Mjoll, it seemed as though she had come to a time she would rather not have seen. True enough, she knew little of the legends of dragons, but all Nords knew the tale of how the end would come at the hands of a dragon. Now, it seemed, she was doomed to be born at the forefront of the end of ages.

For Eirik, it was a different story.

"It's not hopeless, Esbern," he said. "I am the Dragonborn."

Silence followed as Esbern studied the tall Nord sitting before him.

"Can it really be true?" he murmured, stroking his beard pensively. "_Dovahkiin_...Dragonborn." His expression suddenly changed to amazement. "Ha! Then there _is_ hope! The gods haven't abandoned us yet!"

With surprising vigor for one so old, Esbern ran to the trunk at the end of a bed on the far-side of the room and started packing what little things he had.

"We must go, now!" Esbern cried. "Take me to Delphine, we have much to discuss! I'll just gather my things and then I'll be ready."

"As you wish," Eirik nodded. "But we _are_ being followed."

"Aye, I remember!" Esbern retorted. "I'm only half-deaf. But we mustn't leave anything pertinent for the Thalmor to find!" A few more moments of search followed, with Mjoll and Eirik keeping watch on the door. At last he arrived, strapping a dagger sheath to his belt.

"A dagger?" Eirik asked in disbelief.

"Huh?" Esbern replied. "You'll have to speak up, I'm a little deaf in my right ear."

"A dagger?!" Eirik nigh shouted.

"Well, of course a dagger!" Esbern said. "I've been in hiding, I can't be carrying a great-sword about like yourself, Dragonborn. Now come on, what are you waiting for?"

"Wait!" Eirik hissed. "Did you hear that?"

"I can't hear much of anything, boy!" Esbern grumbled.

"It sounded like..."

"...heard something from over here!" a voice distantly said.

Both Eirik and Mjoll drew their weapons, as they soon heard the sound of footsteps running towards them. They were trapped, with no way to go but forward, and that way most likely being the direction from which battle would come. But as they waited, Eirik could guess, by the sound of the number of feet, there were more than three of their enemies before them.

"Halt, Nord maggots!" a voice commanded from out of the darkness. "You've come too far. It's time to end this game. Hand over the old man and we'll consider sparing your lives."

"Don't listen to them," Esbern replied. "They slaughtered the Blades and started this damn war!"

One of the Thalmor laughed. "Foolish old man, you're a conquered people. You should have realized that long ago and laid down in your grave. We are the future!"

"You Thalmor talk too much," Eirik said.

"Insolent dog!" the Thalmor returned and, in the darkness, the sound of a sword being drawn was heard.

In that direction, Eirik swung his great-sword in a mighty arc. It struck flesh. He brought the sword up and swung it horizontally, only to feel it clang off something that wasn't stone. He pushed forward, but the Thalmor pushed against him. He could hear someone moving at his left, then Mjoll give a shout and she engaged the enemy as well. It was difficult fighting in the dark, for one miscalculated swing of the sword might lop off Esbern's head, or Mjoll's. Instead of wide arcs, Eirik decided that he would have greater success with his own strength.

Grasping the blade of his great-sword with his left hand, he gave it a mighty thrust forward and could hear the Thalmor stumbling backward. He heard another clang against his sword, then angled it forward and thrust the pommel. It connected with the Thalmor's face, and he could hear a muffled groan. Eirik then gave a lurch forward as he felt a sword banging against his armor. A cry was heard and then an elf's voice moaning in pain and an ax-blade being ripped from out of a body. Three down. One of the Thalmor nearby shouted, but his voice was muffled. His nose was broken. Eirik walked towards him, turned his sword's blade towards the elf, and thrust forward, impaling the elf in one swift blow. Four down.

"Down!" Mjoll shouted.

Eirik ducked, just in time as a sword swung over his head, stirring up the dead wind above him. But that was what he needed. He thrust the sword blade backwards, and a Thalmor cried out as he collapsed to the floor, tripping in a pool of his own blood: what was left of his right leg had fallen over on its side. Eirik punched the fallen elf five times, who finally let go of his sword. With one hand, Eirik took the elf's sword and thrust it into his face. Just then, Eirik felt a heavy body fall on top of him. He shrugged it off, then turned his blade towards the one who had fallen on top of him: the body did not move. Six down.

"You can thank me for that, Dragonborn!" Esbern laughed. "He was coming up behind you with a knife, so I gutted him instead."

"Well done," Eirik thanked.

"Time for thanks later," Mjoll said. "I can hear more of them."

"Stand back, everyone," Eirik said, sheathing his mighty great-sword. "I might not be a mage, but I know at least this much."

Esbern and Mjoll stood back, while Eirik held out his hands before him. Two spouts of flame shot out of his open palms, illuminating the whole corridor. At their feet lay eight bodies of Thalmor: one had been cut in half by Eirik's blade, another had been hacked in two by Mjoll's ax, there was the one who had been impaled, and next to him lay the leg-less elf with his own sword in his face. Just behind Eirik was the one who had been stabbed by Esbern, and about Mjoll lay three more Thalmor, all of them missing limbs or bleeding profusely.

Before them charged a whole battalion of Thalmor, armed to the teeth. A few of them were sorcerers as well, weaving spells and casting enchantments on their fellows. But Eirik had not only illuminated the corridor; he had created a wall of fire between the Thalmor and them. Those in front were running so swiftly that they fell head-long into the fire. Those behind them tried to halt, but were pushed by the speed of those behind them and were pushed in as well. At the rear-guard, three officers and a mage ran over the corpses of their burning brethren, not even pulling them out of the fire or trying to save them, and charged at the Nords.

It would have been disastrous, had they remained in one place. But they were not as foolish as the Thalmor believed them to be. Under Esbern's suggestion, they had fallen back and were now making their way back through the tunnels of the Ratway Warren, hoping to find the right way back into the city.

"This is a maze, though!" exclaimed Mjoll. "We might lose the Thalmor, but we ourselves will be lost as well."

"Maybe you might be lost...surface-dweller," Esbern replied, gasping as he ran behind them. "As for me...I've been down here...for quite some time. This way!"

They followed Esbern, all the while hoping that they would not be lost, or that the Thalmor would not catch up to them. But as they ran, soon Mjoll and Esbern found themselves in the lead. At Mjoll's insistence, they halted and searched for Eirik. They did not have to search long: they found him leaning up against one of the walls of the corridor.

"Come, Dragonborn!" Esbern insisted. "The Thalmor won't wait for us to catch our breath!"

"I can't-I can't go on," sighed Eirik.

"It's not like a Nord to be so short-winded," Esbern reminded Eirik.

"Sweet Mara!" Mjoll exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, we had forgotten."

"What?"

"Your wounds," Mjoll said to Eirik. "How foolish of me to forget."

"Can you stand?" Esbern asked.

"Give him a moment to rest!" Mjoll insisted.

"I won't let the Thalmor kill the last Dragonborn!" Esbern sternly replied.

"I can stand," Eirik groaned, pushing himself to his feet. "But I can't run very far."

"Here," Mjoll said, taking one of Eirik's arms on her shoulders. "We'll carry you. Esbern, the other arm."

"I really shouldn't be doing this at my age," murmured the old man as he hefted Eirik's huge arm onto his shoulders. They started off again, but their pace was markedly slower. Esbern swore beneath his breath.

"This just won't do," he said. "We're moving too slow."

"I'm not leaving him behind," Mjoll said.

"Well, neither will I, but we just can't seem to escape fast en..." Esbern paused for a moment. The sound of his hand clasping his bald forehead was heard in the darkness. "What an ass! It's so simple!"

"What's simple?" Eirik asked.

"The Ratways lead out to Lake Honrich," Esbern explained. "That's our way out!"

"But you don't know if that's safe or not, I mean, for him, in this condition!" Mjoll argued.

"It might be our only option," Esbern stated.

They ran on, with a definite objective yet no way of knowing if they were going thither. All they were doing for certain was evading the Thalmor, for they went as far from the sound of pursuit as possible. They were definitely going somewhere different than the bottom of the Warrens, for they could see torch-light flickering steadily just up ahead. If the torches had been in the hands of someone like the Thalmor, it would be flickering with the pursuit. Triumphantly, they charged into the light, finding themselves in the Ragged Flagon. It was then that they remembered that they had more potential enemies on their trail than just the Thalmor.

"We've come in a circle," Mjoll stated.

"But just where we need to be," Esbern replied. "This way!"

With Eirik between their shoulders, Mjoll followed Esbern's lead down to the 'basement' level of the Ragged Flagon. Here, illuminated by the yellow glow of torches, was what looked like a secret dock underneath the city of Riften. Every so often, on the posts of the dock, was carved the circle within the diamond in white paint. This was a Thieves Guild dock, built and run surely for the most clandestine of operations. So great was their control over Riften, as Mjoll had told Eirik, yet this secret dock suggested a whole new level of secrecy, one that dared not trust even Maven Black-Briar, who claimed to have the Jarl and most of Riften in her pocket already.

"There they are!" a voice shouted from behind.

"Jump!" Esbern shouted, and they, as one man, leaped into the water of the Thieves Guild secret dock.

* * *

**(AN: Ugh, I hate writing fights. They play out well on-screen, but on page I have to literally write down every move each of the players make, it's so tedious. Hopefully that last bit was long enough for you. I had in mind the main character from _Ironclad_ for how Eirik fights in close quarters, but also in general later on. The whole scene with the great-sword really was a big inspiration, for me, for how Eirik moves and fights. Just seems really bad-ass.) **

**(Maybe it was a bad choice on my part, but in the game, I chose not to kill Paarthurnax, so all I had from Esbern was this mission and "Alduin's Wall." Whether or not I'll keep to that outcome in this game, I cannot yet say. However, if I do, I want Esbern to have more in this story than just that, so we obviously got to see more of him. Hope his depiction was accurate enough, and the rest of this chapter was long enough for you [sometimes it feels like I'm whipping a dead horse with the description, so I end up writing a two-line paragraph, sorry]. I thought Eirik's endurance held out well. He got beat up by two strong enemies [Dirge and Maul] and then did some hard-core fighting, while wounded. Don't you think he would be exhausted after that?)  
**


	8. On the Run

**(AN: One comment about Eirik's stamina in the last chapter, it still carried over from the previous chapter that he had been beaten up by Dirge and Maul, so he's obviously not in his prime as he's going toe to toe with the Thalmor...but he still slew thirteen Thalmor [three actually with his own blade and then ten from the fire spell], and Mjoll had four. But then again, there were thirty [heavily outnumbered] and Eirik got a big count because he used fire and it was a sudden blast that caught most of the Thalmor off guard. Hope that made some kind of sense.)**

**(Did it ever occur to you that, in such situations, when you're being pursued, you never have to be on the lam for a while? As soon as the quest is achieved, all is well again. Well, all is _not_ well in Riften, friends.)**

* * *

**On the Run**

Three faces emerged from the surface of Lake Honrich, sputtering and coughing out the freezing cold water from their mouths. They set their eyes for the nearest shore that was farthest from Riften and started swimming. It was not easy for any of them: Esbern was old and less nimble than the others, and both Mjoll and Eirik wore armor that seemed to be dragging them under. But for Eirik it was the most difficult, for he still bore the wounds of his encounter with Maul and Dirge, as well as those from the fight with the Thalmor. They pushed and they pushed, treading water for many long, chillingly painful minutes, expecting at any moment to feel the bite of Thalmor arrows or slaughter-fish teeth.

By and by, however, they felt soft, pebbly mud beneath their feet: they had reached shore. One by one they crawled onto the shore, with Eirik following last, struggling underneath heavy armor, soaked clothes and his wounds. Mjoll looked upon him and placed her arm around his shoulders, helping to carry him to shore, despite his protests.

"There is no shame in accepting help from a friend," Mjoll said.

Once they were on the shore, Eirik began tearing off strips of cloth from his trousers and proceeded to bind up his wounds. Mjoll sat down to take wind while Esbern looked about this way and that.

"We're still not out of danger yet," he replied. "If you would be ruled by my council, Dragonborn, you will not go to Delphine immediately. If the Thalmor catch both of us there and kill us, it would be a grievous day for all of Tamriel."

"So Riverwood's...damn!" Eirik winced as he wiped blood off his face. "That's out of the question?"

"If that's where you were intending to take me, then, yes," Esbern replied. "We should go to the most unlikeliest of places the Thalmor would expect us to go: Hjaalmarch. If I'm not mistaken, that's directly on the border of the Imperial capital of Solitude, where the Thalmor still have a strong holding. They won't be expecting us on their doorstep, so it will definitely throw them off track. Then, to ensure that pursuit has been shaken off, we will go east into Eastmarch. If the Thalmor cross the border, they will have to deal with the Stormcloaks. They haven't made any large assaults, not since the Great War: they think us all their slaves and have no need for large armies." He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

"And then?" Eirik asked.

"Then," the old man replied. "Once we're in Eastmarch, we'll make our way to Riverwood from there."

Eirik nodded, then turned to Mjoll, who was making sure her ax was clean.

"Are you coming with us?" he asked. "You're in as much danger as we are."

"I've told you, Riften is my great beast to be slain," Mjoll replied. "I..." She paused for a moment, and Eirik could see something in her eyes that surprised him.

"What's wrong?" Eirik asked.

"It's nothing," Mjoll dismissed, bowing her head sorrowfully.

"No, tell me, what is it?"

She sighed. "I hope you understand the enormous risk I'm taking in telling you this," Mjoll began. "I never confide any of the details of my personal life with total strangers, but since we see eye-to-eye on so much and have already come through battle together, I feel that I can trust you now." She picked up her ax, glancing over it, and then began.

"I used to be an adventurer, as I've told you before," she said. "But one day I ventured into a Dwemer ruin. I've always admired the Dwemer architecture. They left a great legacy across Tamriel that I find majestic beyond words. In one of those ruins, I almost lost my life. It was Aerin who found me bleeding at the entrance to said ruin and brought me back to Riften, where he nursed me to health.

"I said before that Riften is my beast to be slain. This is true, but not all of the truth. I have not left Riften since my arrival because, when I awoke in Aerin's house, I found that I had lost Grimsever, my treasured sword. It was given to me by my mother before..." She paused, then turned back to Esbern and Eirik, shaking her head. "Sorry, old wounds. But Grimsever is very precious to me, and has been at my side throughout all my adventures. Without it, I feel almost as defenseless as a newborn babe in arms. I've never been able to find a blade to match it, nor do I think I ever will."

"I'm sorry," Eirik replied.

"I only mentioned it because I overheard your plans," she continued. "To reach Eastmarch from Hjaalmarch, the swiftest route would be through the Pale, the last place I remembered with my Grimsever. I could be mistaken, though: it was lost years ago, it might not even be there anymore."

Eirik nodded in quiet recognition, then craned his neck about to get a look around. No one was about as far as his eyes could tell, but Esbern's words had merit. He would not wait around to have them found out again. He pushed himself up, sheathed his great-sword and turned his eyes eastward.

"It looks like mid-afternoon," he said. "How far is the nearest town?"

"Ivarstead is at the westernmost end of the Rift," Mjoll said. "We might be able to reach there at dusk."

"So you're going with us, now?" Eirik asked.

"Only as far as the borders of the Rift," she replied. She turned to Esbern and helped him onto his feet. As Eirik started walking off, she placed her hand firmly on Eirik's shoulder.

"Remember," she said. "We survived the Ratways, so you owe me a drink and the rest of your story when we get to Ivarstead, deal?"

"Aye." Eirik nodded.

* * *

True to what Mjoll had said, they reached Ivarstead by nightfall. It was a rather small hamlet, settled on the slopes of the Throat of the World, the highest point in all of Skyrim. Eirik had been there before, but whether his two traveling companions had been, he had not asked. They were still not in the clear, and the night they would spend at the inn, the Vilemyr, would be a guarded one at best. As they passed through the door and began wandering the common room, they kept their eyes open for anything or anyone suspicious. On the surface, there was nothing suspicious, but Eirik knew that even some Nords were not above coercion or corruption. Hadvar had been a Nord, yet he served the Empire. Perhaps there were Nords who had sold out their own people to the Thalmor and worked as spies. How else, Eirik thought, had they learned about Malborn and their plan?

Mjoll paid for their rooms, then joined Esbern and Eirik in the common room, where Eirik Dragonborn made good on his deal with Mjoll. Two bottles of Nord mead sat on the table between them, and, since it had been Eirik's treat, Mjoll drank the first cup: she downed it in one swig.

"There's an old saying about Nord women," Mjoll said cheekily to Eirik, wiping her mouth with her wrist. "'You don't know one until you've had a strong drink and a fistfight with one.'"

Eirik laughed, then downed his own tankard.

"What's so funny?" Mjoll asked.

"You remind me of someone I met in Whiterun," Eirik returned.

"You've been to Whiterun?" Mjoll exclaimed. "I've always wanted to visit Whiterun. I hear it is a beautiful place, one of the only places of peace in these dark days."

"It is peaceful indeed," Eirik replied.

"Oh!" Mjoll exclaimed. "That reminds me, you never finished the story of Helgen. How did you manage to escape the dragon?"

"I still can't figure out how I managed to escape," Eirik began with a sigh. "So many others had died: Gunjar, Jorn, Inga, all the people of Helgen. Incinerated, or cut down in the chaos that ensued. We used the attack to escape, Ralof and myself, but the Empire didn't feel like requesting our help against the dragon: we were as bad to them as the dragon, and they cut us down just the same. The gods must have been on our side that morning, for I can think of no other way how we could have escaped.

"Ralof and I found a cave that brought us outside of Riften on the western border of Falkreath Hold, just a few hour's walk to the Whiterun town of Riverwood..."

* * *

**(AN: Yay, another flashback in the next chapter! This one was rather short, but sort of accidentally so. The whole progress of being 'on the run' will be staggered over several chapters, rather than just this one. I'm hoping to get this going for many chapters [like _ThalieXVII_'s _Soul Calibur_ fic "Raphael Sorel's Endless Warfare", which is by now fifty-six chapters long], for a big adventure with lots of character development, not just for our main characters. Yes, there will be sex later on, but I'm saving that for later, especially because of Mjoll's back-story. Just be patient!)**


	9. Whiterun

**(AN: Lol, I love your reviews, people. One thing I want to say, however, is that, logically, if you are trying to throw someone off your path and you _DON'T_ want them knowing where your SECRET meeting is of the group which your enemy wiped out several hundred years ago, you don't want to go to the hiding place of that group. It might seem odd, but remember, they are being pursued and have to throw the Thalmor off the trail. So yes, though it seems odd, leading the Thalmor all about eastern Skyrim probably would make sense if you're trying to shake your tails of them.)**

**(And yay, a critical review! While nice ones are welcomed, my story is only as good as each critical review, so those help. Um...how can I say this without sounding like a complete and utter douche-bag? Oh yes, if you're upset about how I depict the Empire in the flash-backs [I think I did keep Hadvar's lines from the game more or less intact, but maybe that was too subtle], remember who is telling that part of the story. I am the one telling the 'current' events of Eirik's story, while _he_ is the one telling the flash-backs, and he has already made his decision as to which side he will follow. Keep that in mind for future flash-backs, and that I will have Eirik go to Markarth and discover what went down there.)**

**(But, of course, all of that pales into utter insignificance due to the fact that, just like in epics, by reason of the pen, I can tell portions of the story in flash-back with no time passing for our main characters [or at least, not much time])**

* * *

**Whiterun**

When Ralof and Eirik finally arrived at the town of Riverwood, both were heavily exhausted. What had gone down in Helgen was more harrowing than they wished to recall. Even after escaping from the headsman's ax, they were thrust quite literally out of the frying pan and into the fire. Dragon's fire ravaged the town and the Imperial garrison was sent scurrying to take the people to safety. The Thalmor, oddly, had disappeared before the attack happened, leading both Ralof and the liberated Ulfric to wonder if they had something to do with this. But they had little time, for the dragon was about and another threat as well.

The Empire, while more than content helping the people who served them in Helgen, did the exact opposite to the Stormcloaks who used the dragon attack to try to escape. Eirik remembered the screams coming from the torture room at the bottom of Helgen tower and saw what was left of the Stormcloaks that had been captured here and in months before: it was a grisly sight to say the least.

Those thoughts and others flew through Eirik's mind as he followed Ralof down the road from Helgen to Riverwood, a logging town on the side of the White River. Ralof said that he had family in Riverwood who might be able to help them out in this crisis, and Eirik agreed. Everyone he knew back in Falkreath was dead and buried; he had no more ties with that place than two mounds of rocks in a clearing east of Glenmoril Coven. While they walked, Ralof asked him little about what he had done prior to being captured, as he said it wasn't his business.

"Although," he said. "If you'll take my advice, leaving Skyrim is probably not a good idea at the present. You've been seen with us, the Empire will consider you an enemy, and there's the Thalmor to worry about as well."

Eirik agreed with this rationale, but even more, he wanted to travel about Skyrim more than he had in his youth. Growing up as a logger in Falkreath hadn't given him much more than the strength to wield a great-sword with great ease, and it kept him financially strained. But a few years or more of hard work and he had finally gotten enough to go out on his own, to explore Tamriel. Skyrim, however, offered what Cyrodiil and the rest of Tamriel could not: relative freedom from the Empire and what they would do to him, now that he had been seen in the company of rebels.

* * *

Riverwood. A welcoming sight after the horrors of Helgen. The guards were idling about on their business and nearby, at a tanning rack, an old woman and a straw-headed young man were arguing about a dragon. The town seemed untouched, so perhaps the dragon had not attacked. As they stood outside of town, Ralof whispered aside to Eirik.

"Remember," he said. "This isn't Stormcloak territory. If we're ahead of the news from Helgen, we should be fine as long as we don't do anything stupid."

"Right," Eirik nodded.

"If there are any Imperials, just let me do the talking," Ralof added. "Now come, the mill is this way."

The town was not very large. Not much larger than Falkreath, Eirik guessed. Nevertheless, he hadn't been here and it was as new to him as anything. He followed Ralof down the main drag of the town and down a street to the left, where a large mill-house sat on the other side of the river, accessible from this side by a low bridge of wooden planks. Ralof went first and was met by a young lad, who ran towards the large Nord, crying "Uncle!" happily. Ralof lifted the boy up in his arms and held him up at his level.

"Look at you, Frodnar!" he exclaimed proudly. "Almost a grown man. One day, you'll be at your Uncle Ralof's side, fighting the Empire!"

He put his nephew down, and then greeted a woman who was making her way over to hear what the ruckus was. Eirik could see the resemblance between the two: their eyes were of similar shape and they spoke with the same accent, and both of their hair was the color of straw.

"Eirik," Ralof said. "This is my sister, Gerður."

"Well met," Gerður said to Eirik. "I haven't seen you around here before, are you new to Riverwood?"

"Aye." Eirik nodded.

"If you're looking for work, talk to my husband Hod," she continued. "He's busy at the mill."

"We're not here for work, Gerður," Ralof interjected. "Tell me, has anyone come back from Helgen?"

"Nothing's come up from the south road," Gerður replied. "But what happened to you, brother? I surely thought you had..."

"We had been captured," Eirik said. "A dragon attacked Helgen. We just barely escaped with our lives."

Gerður was shocked by this revelation. "It can't...no, wait, I saw it too! That thing that flew over the barrow, straight towards..." Her pale face lost what color there was left of it. "Oh, gods! It's going towards Whiterun! The Jarl needs to know of the dragon attack, for us as well as for Whiterun. A dragon might not attack a large city where there are many soldiers, but Riverwood is defenseless!"

"Why?" Eirik asked.

"There haven't been dragons in Skyrim for hundreds of years, if not thousands," Gerður replied. "The mountains have always provided this town with a natural defense against armies on foot, but a dragon? First the war and now this, what has this world come to?!"

"We'll do something about this," Ralof said. "Don't worry."

"You there," Gerður said to Eirik. "You saved Ralof's life, perhaps I can trust you? Go to Whiterun and warn the Jarl that a dragon has been sighted. I...the whole town, would be in your debt."

"I'll do it," Eirik nodded.

"Divines bless you," Gerður replied. "Whiterun is to the north, on the other side of the Bleak Falls mountains. Be wary of venturing into the barrow located there: foul creatures haunt that place."

"I'll remember that," Eirik stated.

* * *

"So?" Mjoll asked. "What happened next? Did you go at once to Whiterun? How long did you stay in Riverwood?"

"All in good time," Eirik laughed, as he filled their tankards from the bottle. "Ralof and I were both exhausted and we wanted rest more than adventures. Gerður let us stay at her house by the mill, and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the mill. She paid me some gold for my work, which was good. The Imperials stole my money when they captured me, the bastards."

Eirik looked over at Esbern, who was eying the people who were gathering around the fire-side, listening to a young Nord woman playing a lute. Some even were starting to chant along with her old verses of rhymes. Those who were especially drunk began adding lewd lyrics to the melodies, until the Hetjakvatchlag was about three buxom Breton women who were easy pickings in the bedroom. Mjoll snorted, but ignored their words.

"It's not wise to pick fights with drunk people," she said.

"Esbern?" Eirik asked. "You're being awfully quiet."

"And you're being too open-mouthed!" Esbern grumbled. "We're not out of danger and you're talking of your life's story before any listening ears."

"We still have quite a way to go on your outlandish attempt to lose anyone tracking us," Eirik jested.

"You can never be too safe, when you're someone like me!" the old man retorted, then went back to watching the crowds.

"So, friend, what happens next in your story?" Mjoll asked, taking a drink from her tankard.

"Well, I did stay the night in Riverwood," Eirik continued. "Thank Ysmir the dragons didn't attack during the night."

"Wait, dragon_s_?"

"Yes, I will tell you the rest later," Eirik dismissed. "However, in the morning, I went to the nearby trader's store to see if they had anything I might need for a long march to Whiterun, as there were no stables in Riverwood. I heard the shopkeep and his sister talking about something that had been stolen from them and taken up into the barrow. Since it was along my way, I offered to find it for them."

"You went into Bleak Falls barrow?" Mjoll asked. "I've ventured through many draugr ruins myself in my day. What was it like?"

"What do you expect?" Eirik chuckled. "Draugr, spiders, traps and ancient stone. There were bandits, but most of them had been claimed by the traps. I found my way out, with only a few scratches. When I had cleared the barrow, I found that it's exit brought me out on the other side of the mountain, near Whiterun."

* * *

From the heights of the Bleak Falls mountain, Eirik could see the plains and valleys that sprawled throughout most of the hold of Whiterun. There were a few scattered mountains and small streams, the majority of the land was lush, wind-swept sea of grass dotted with pastures. Rising high above the plains, at the corner between the Bleak Falls mountains and the Throat of the World, was a hill. Upon that hill, Eirik could descry a large town with a high wooden fence about it. At the far north-eastern corner of the hill, there rose a great hall with a golden, thatched roof. This was the town of Whiterun, the capital of Whiterun Hold. That golden hall was Dragonsreach, where ruled Balgruuf the Greater as Jarl of Whiterun. Thither Eirik would go to fulfill his task to Ralof's sister and to the people of Riverwood.

While, from the heights of the mountain range, it seemed like a short distance, it was actually quite a stretch of the legs to reach Whiterun. At the foot of the mountains was a camp of giants. Even though he had not ventured far, Eirik had heard the legends of the giants of Skyrim. They could crush an unsuspecting adventurer's head with their bare hands, and the more colorful legends spoke of their very footsteps shaking the ground and that their clubs could send one sailing into the realm of the gods on high. Eirik didn't feel like having his bones broken or finding out if any of these legends were true, so he avoided the camp all together. Nevertheless, he could hear grumblings in ancient Nordic coming from the hills in fierce basso voices.

The long plains from the foothills of Whiterun were no mean feat, but while Eirik could not run fast, as he was built with the body of a warrior, he had endurance enough to keep up a steady pace and reach the foot of Whiterun with only his mouth hot and dry. He walked towards the gates of Whiterun, which, upon closer inspection, were of stone rather than wood. As he approached, three or four guards in yellow surcoats with masked helms on their heads approached him.

"Halt," one of the guards said to Eirik. "This city is closed, official business only."

"Riverwood calls for the Jarl's aid," Eirik replied to the guard.

"This is news indeed!" exclaimed the city-guard. "Go on in, you'll find Jarl Balgruuf at the hall of Dragonsreach." He then gripped his sword. "A word of caution, kinsman. Respect the laws of Whiterun, or I'll haul you the jail myself."

Eirik nodded quietly, then made his way through the heavy gates into the city of Whiterun. Inside, he saw that it was all of wood with stone foundations and paved stone streets, and the houses had roofs of thatch. As Eirik made his way up the hill towards the hall of Dragonsreach, he saw more colorful buildings along the way. Stave temples dedicated to the Divines were in some of the districts on the second level of the hill, which surrounded an old, dying tree in a courtyard of stone. At the foot of the tree, before its naked bows, was a stone statue of a great Nord standing triumphantly over a carved serpent. To the east of this was a great hall fashioned like a drekkar turned belly-up, lined with shields of many warriors upon its sides. Directly ahead, standing imposingly behind the towering statue, was the hall of Dragonsreach. It was built in similar fashion to the stave temples, yet loftier and much larger.

As he walked up to the hall, Eirik saw that there was a stream flowing from the top-most part of the hill, at the foot of the great hall. Access to it was gained by a wide stair-case made of stone that reached up to the doorstep of the hall. Up this way he went and crossed the great wooden porch, coming at last up to the great wooden doors of the hall. With two hands, he pushed open the massive oaken doors and made his way into the hall. It was indeed lofty inside, and well-lit from a long fire-pit in the center of the hall that was kept burning even during the day. On the far side of the hall, opposite the doors, huge banners were hung from the ceiling. All of them were in yellow, depicting a horse in white upon their fields. Beneath the banners was a raised pedestal, upon which sat one whom Eirik surmised had to be the Jarl. He made his way slowly towards that throne. His approach hadn't gone unnoticed, however, for as he walked into the hall and was making his way towards the farthest wall, a blue-gray skinned Dunmer in leather armor drew her sword and approached Eirik.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" she asked. "The Jarl is not receiving any hearings."

"I have news from Helgen," Eirik replied. "There's been a dragon attack."

"Hmph," the Dunmer replied. "I suppose that's why the guards let you in. Come, the Jarl will want to hear your story."

Eirik followed the Dunmer up the steps to the throne, where he came face to face with Balgruuf the Greater. He was a tall man, even by Nord standards, lean but with strong arms. He had a long, golden beard and his hair was of the same color.

"So," the Jarl spoke to Eirik, in a commanding, Nord voice. "You were at Helgen? You saw the dragon with your own eyes?"

"Yes," Eirik nodded. "Helgen was destroyed. The last I saw, the dragon was headed this way."

The Jarl sighed in resignation, but he was not sad. His countenance betrayed only a grim determination brought about by the harsh winds of fate. He knew the truth and now had to act. He turned to a bald Cyrodilian at his side, dressed in robes too clean and fancy to be any warrior.

"What do you say now, Proventus?" the Jarl asked of the Cyrodilian. "Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

The Cyrodilian adviser made no reply, but the Dunmer approached the side of her Jarl and saluted. "My lord, we should send troops to defend Riverwood. They are in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains..."

"Jarl Siddgeir will see this as a provocation," the Cyrodilian spoke up at last. "If we move troops into Riverwood, he will think we've joined the Stormcloaks and are preparing to attack Falkreath."

"That sounds more like his wretched uncle," the Dunmer said aside.

"Enough!" Balgruuf shouted. "The White take this damn war! I'll not sit idly here while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" He turned to the Dunmer. "Irileth, send troops to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my lord," Irileth the Dunmer bowed, then departed. The Cyrodilian likewise bowed and departed, after asking his lord for permission to leave. Alone with the Nord, Balgruuf turned to Eirik.

"You came to me, to warn me of this danger, of your own initiative," Balgruuf said. "Well done, you've done Whiterun a great service, one that I won't soon forget. I'll have my servants bring you a suit of armor as a gift, a token of my esteem. If you're looking for work, speak to the court mage Farengar. He has been looking into matters related to dragons. Come, I will take you to him."

* * *

**(AN: I wonder if anyone else refers to Whiterun in jest as Edoras. Due to its location and visual description, it looks like Edoras from _Lord of the Rings_. The Hetjakvatchlag is an amalgam of "hetja" and "lag", the Swedish words for "Hero" and "Song" respectively. All together, it means roughly "Hero Kvatch Song", or "The Song of the Hero of Kvatch". Depending on how much time you believe has passed between _Oblivion_ and _Skyri__m_ [according to modded character Vilja, enough time for her and the Dovahkiin to, potentially, have been in a relationship], the events of _Oblivion_ have probably passed into legend by this time. I believe that at least a hundred years or so have passed [it's a whole different era, for Talos' sake!], enough time for the Thalmor to have killed any witnesses and erased all records and started spreading their lies that _they_ solved the Oblivion crisis. What is implied in this story is that some hundred years or so have passed and not all of the people of Tamriel have bought the line they've been fed by the Thalmor [enough didn't for Ulfric to get a following, so I guess there were plenty of dissatisfaction by then], so obviously the truth about the legend of the Hero of Kvatch has been altered for those whoever is singing the story. So, by the time of the events of _Skyrim_, it's open to interpretation as far as what race the Hero of Kvatch was in _Oblivion_.)**

**(And, seriously, his _Thu'um_ isn't powerful enough? Firstly, the Ratways aren't made of wood, they're made of stone. Secondly, if we're going to be specific like that, then one could simply "Fus Ro Dah" at any town and it would collapse, making dragons horribly over-powered, as well as the Dovakhiin. Let's just say that he only unleashed a tenth of his Unrelenting Force at the Thalmor.)**

**(I used some Norse spelling, like in "Gerdur" and, of course, won't go into too intimate detail about the start missions because, as with "Heglen", that can get boring. Next chapter will have action, don't worry.)**


	10. Attack on the Inn

**(AN: Lol, if my explanation in the notes of last chapter weren't enough, how's about this one?)**

**(One thing that gets changed in my story [besides Gerður, because they seem to pronounce Gerdur close to "Gerber" in the game, and it sounds better, imo, as "Gerdha" or "Gertha"] is that I will use 'huscarl' rather than 'housecarl'. I just think it flows better to say 'huscarl', imo. It still means the same thing, though.)**

**(Lol, I almost made the mistake of using a typical epic movie one-liner in one of the chapters. "On the Run" was too close to "On the move", which is over-used in every epic movie or wanna-be epic movie [_Star Wars_: "Quickly, they're on the move", _Lord of the Rings_: "Faramir, orcs are on the move", _Chronicl__es of Narnia_: "Aslan is on the move", _Harry Potter_: "Voldemort is on the move" and, though I'm not certain, _Alice in Wonderland_: "The White Queen is on the move."]. But hopefully, this story won't fall into those cliches. And, you'll get to see a much stronger Unrelenting Force here.)**

* * *

**Attack on the Inn**

"I've heard," Mjoll interrupted. "Because of the war, Nords mistrust elves of all sorts. I have never found this kind of prejudice warranted or fair."

Eirik grumbled. "They have good reason to be distrusting of the elves," he said. "The Thalmor hate Talos and have outlawed his worship throughout Skyrim. They have persecuted the Nords for worshiping him in defiance, and so they hate them. But I did not hate Irileth. I later found out just who she was: Jarl Balgruuf's huscarl. She had saved his life many times and he had shown her respect, in return, her loyalty to him was to the death. That kind of honor meant something to me, and so I admired her for what she did."

"Yes, I'm sure it was very touching," Esbern interrupted. "Now, if you don't mind, I should like to get to our beds as soon as possible. We have a long way to go and we'll need an early start."

"Remind me again," Mjoll interjected. "Why you are intending to circle the whole of Skyrim just to lose the Thalmor?"

"Why, would you rather me take the short route and lead them right to Delphine?" Esbern replied sarcastically. "Now unless you have something useful to add, I suggest you cease these foolish suggestions and head off to our rooms!"

"Watch your tongue, old man!" Eirik retorted.

Esbern grunted. "What she just suggested is foolishness! Something a green adventurer would say with no experience in being hunted like an animal."

"Then forgive her, don't chide her," Eirik said.

"Why, do you fancy her?" Esbern asked, examining both of them with a cunning eye of careful scrutiny. "Hmm. Nevertheless, the Thalmor won't forgive, nor, I suspect, have they waited while we have. Now let's get to bed quickly, so we can get an early start in the morning."

Eirik agreed with the latter, but apologized to Mjoll behind Esbern's back. They made their way out of the common room to one of the rooms on the ground floor. It was rather small, and had only one bed. Both Mjoll and Eirik turned to the old man.

"I'll sleep on the floor, keep watch until I can't keep my eyes shut," he said. "You two can have the bed."

The two younger Nords turned to each other, but Mjoll's eyes were looking on the floor rather than at Eirik.

"If you want the bed," she said at last. "I have no problem sleeping on the floor as well."

"No," Eirik retorted. "You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor."

"I don't need the bed," she replied. "Tomorrow, I will be on my way back home to Riften where I may sleep in my bed in Aerin's house."

"Why don't you both take the bed?" Esbern asked grumpily.

"No!" both shouted in retort, but Mjoll sounded especially insistent.

"As you wish it," the old man said.

"I don't mind sleeping on the floor, really," Eirik stated.

"But we can't both sleep on the floor," Mjoll insisted. "One of us _has_ to take the bed."

"Why?" Eirik asked.

"Why? I refuse to sleep in the same bed as a man!"

"I won't take advantage of you," Eirik said. "Trust me, I've often had to share a bed-roll with my huscarl on cold nights."

"It matters little to me what you and your shield-thane do on cold nights," Mjoll replied. "I will _not_ sleep in the same bed as you, I cannot."

"Why not? I've given you my word..."

"Drop it, already!" Mjoll insisted firmly. She then sighed. "I'm sorry, but it's something very personal. This is not the time or place for it, nor are we close enough for me to tell you that kind of information. I will say no more."

They argued on for at least ten more minutes, frequently interrupted by sarcastic comments from Esbern, who was growing weary of their constant bickering. At one point, he said that they were acting like milk-drinking children. At this, the two of them settled the dispute by Eirik taking the floor and insisting that Mjoll sleep in the bed. Eirik shed his armor for the night, though Esbern warned both of them to keep their weapons near at hand, in case of another attack. While it was starting to sound like paranoia, Eirik remembered the incompetent thief in the dead of night at the Bee and Barb in Riften. The Thalmor were much stronger than the Thieves Guild, and they wouldn't be sending warnings if they broke into their room. So they kept their weapons nigh at hand and, after Esbern blew out the candles, they fell asleep one after the other.

* * *

Eirik was awoken in the dead of the night by something heavy falling on top of him. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and suddenly saw a sallow, elven face looking at him with unblinking black eyes. He started, but the body did not move. He reached up a hand to the face and felt that it was stone cold. He was about to give out a cry when a gnarled hand was placed over his mouth.

"Shh!" Esbern hissed. "They found us, we need to leave now."

He then pushed the dead Elf's body off Eirik, who then got up and began quickly strapping on his armor. Esbern tried to explain that there was no time, but Eirik wouldn't have it. This armor had been given him by Jarl Balgruuf, and he wasn't interested in losing it. Esbern, meanwhile, had taken the Elf's blade and was keeping guard at the door. Once his armor was on, Eirik turned to Mjoll and roused her from sleep. He pressed a finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet, then reached for her armor when he noticed that it was needless: Mjoll slept in her armor.

Suddenly, they gasped as they heard heavy footfalls making their way towards the door. Mjoll turned to the window and threw it open. Beyond was the dark of night, but they could see nothing, unless the Thalmor out there refused to use torches for the express purpose of deceit. But that soon became their only option, when they heard fists pounding on the door of their room. Mjoll climbed out the window, followed shortly by Eirik. Lastly, Esbern made his way to the window. It would have not worked had he been alone, for he was stiff and aged. But Eirik and Mjoll were able to drag him out of the window.

"Down!" Eirik whispered.

They pushed themselves parallel with the outer wall of the inn, as they were certain the Thalmor had broken into their room and were, even now, searching for them. They didn't stir an inch until they heard the sound of footsteps disappearing behind them.

"We can't wait until morning," Esbern said. "Let's go, now."

"Shh, wait!" Eirik whispered. "Something's going on back there."

From the other side of the inn, they could hear the door being thrust open and voices speaking for a while.

"There's no one there," one stern, militaristic voice said. "Although it looks as though the room has been used recently."

"That means they're still here somewhere," another voice, crisp and aristocratic, replied. "Fire the inn."

"What? No!" a man's voice returned. This one they recognized as the innkeep. "This is my inn! They're not there, we're not outlaws!"

"Nevertheless," the aristocratic voice replied. "You have harbored enemies of the Thalmor."

"But we didn't know..."

"Down on your feet, cur!" the aristocratic voice ordered. The innkeeper groaned as he was struck down, and they heard a body falling to the ground. "Damned stupid Nords! Your kind are fit for only one thing: to serve the Thalmor. If you dare challenge my authority again, I will have you flogged to death!"

"We can't let this happen!" Mjoll said.

"We don't have time!"

"No!" Eirik shouted, running from cover. He ran out from the back-side of the inn and stood where the Thalmor were assembled. "You want me? Leave these people out of it."

"You challenge my authority, puny Nord?" the aristocratic Thalmor challenged.

"I spit on your authority!" Eirik shouted. "You want to kill someone? Try killing me!"

"Bring him back here, make sure the old man is with him!"

Eirik ran back to the others.

"Run, now!" he said. "Mjoll, get back to Riften, they won't follow you."

"You chose to sacrifice yourself for the innkeeper and his inn?" Mjoll asked, her voice oddly tender.

"Yes yes, and the Divines smile upon that," Esbern said. "Fool! You've told them where we are!"

"We'll follow the plan," Eirik said with a wink that was hidden in the moonless dark.

"There he is!" one of the Thalmor shouted.

Eirik turned about and drew out his great-sword. The first Thalmor barely had a chance, as the great-sword swung in a wide arc and hacked off the elf's head. The next ones were a bit more wary, raising their shields. They shook and quivered as Eirik's sword battered upon their shields, but were otherwise still standing.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

Like chaff in the wind, the Thalmor with the shields were thrown many yards back. Even the inn seemed to be shaking on its timbers from the unrelenting force of Eirik's voice.

"That should buy us some time," Eirik said to the others.

"Not much," Esbern replied. "We split up now."

"Right," Eirik nodded. He walked over to Mjoll. "You should go back to Riften."

"No, I'm going with you!" she insisted.

"This is dangerous," Eirik began. "More dangerous than anything you've faced already, and you don't even have your sword!"

Mjoll seemed for a moment torn, but the voices of Thalmor organizing their forces snapped her back into the present.

"Very well," she said. "Maybe I can draw them back to Riften and break off some of the pursuit."

"Ysmir willing," Eirik said, then turned about to follow Esbern, when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"In case I never see you again..." Mjoll said, then pressed her lips against Eirik's. When they parted, Eirik seemed perplexed and surprised.

"Hurry!" Esbern shouted. "This way!"

Eirik turned and ran after the old man, and together they ran westward, into the night. They had not long to run, for morning would soon be upon them. Nevertheless, they would stick to Esbern's plan, which now seemed more reasonable than when they planned it from the safety of the shores of Lake Honrich. If they could cross the mountains at the southern border of the Throat of the World before dawn, they might have a chance of evading capture. Thither they ran, and the Thalmor pursued them.

* * *

**(AN: No, really, the Thalmor claimed that they were responsible for solving the Oblivion crisis, that's from the lore of the game, I didn't make it up. Seriously, don't blame me that the creator of the Vilja mod decided to change the facts.)**

**(Was that better? I'm still writing this story for me and can do with it as I please [but I won't do anything really silly or stupid, I respect the source material too much], even if that means devoting chapters to character development and flash-backs. I do take reviews into consideration, so if you suggest something that I like, who knows, it might appear later on.)**


	11. A New Quest

**(AN: Maybe in the text of this story, but I'm drawing my hatred of the Thalmor from _Elder Scrolls_ lore, documented and canon. It doesn't get much attention, I tro, because most people just join the Empire because, on the surface, the Stormcloaks are racists and nobody wants to join with racists, right? Well, considering who they're racist against - namely the Thalmor - in a real-life setting, that would make Native Americans racists as well as every race or group of people whom America or Great Britain have ever wronged. I don't know, maybe I'm just fanning flames and will get chewed up and spat out in the reviews. I'm just trying to show my rationale. [also, _Elder Scrolls_ wikia says what I had previously stated about them])  
**

**(Just be patient, you'll see why Mjoll reacted the way she did. Well, I left the question of Aerin's sexual preference open, but nobody responded positively or negatively to my suggestion, so I guess we'll never know. Also, no, I didn't make Vilja canon. I was referencing her to show that not everyone believes as I and the game creators do: that two hundred some years passed between _Oblivion_ and _Skyrim_.)  
**

* * *

**A New Quest**

Long days had passed since the attack at the inn at Ivarstead. True to the plan, Eirik and Esbern trekked over the mountain border of The Rift and Whiterun. There was no apparent pursuit, but by now, Eirik knew better than to trust senses when it came to pursuit, especially by the Thalmor. Though it was out of the way and made their journey longer, better a long delay than being ambushed again by the Thalmor in Riverwood. Even if they managed to lose them in the mountains, they might make their way around the Throat of the World and be waiting for them on the other side.

So it was decided further that they would draw off the pursuit even more by dividing themselves once again. Esbern would go in secret to Riverwood, while Eirik would pass through Bleak Falls mountain and come to Whiterun. If, as they hoped, pursuit had been lost or at least delayed by their trek through the mountains, at least one of them might be able to reach Riverwood unmarked. With Eirik still on the main road, they would find him easier and follow him thither. A gamble, to be sure, but this whole business was a gamble and time was running out: the real enemy was not the Thalmor, as threatening as they might be.

The real enemy haunted the skies of Skyrim, the harbinger of the end.

Thus it was that Eirik made his way back through the mountains to Whiterun Hold, where he would return to his house in Breezehome. He went by foot, for there were no wagon-trails in the mountains, nor stables for horses. So he made the by-now familiar path down the side of the mountain and towards the oceans of grass that flowed about the hill upon which the town of Whiterun was built. It would only be a short jog from here to the gates of Whiterun, where, after his encounter with Mirmulnir at the western watchtower, he had shortly become Thane to Jarl Balgruuf.

Suddenly, there was a roar and a rush of wind, like a thousand wings. A huge dragon came flying over the mountains right over Eirik's head and went soaring down towards Whiterun, breathing flame upon the farms and houses around it. Eirik had no bow, but he would not let the dragon destroy the people of Whiterun. Drawing out his sword he ran down the rest of the hill and into the valley. As he passed down, he could hear a voice from the top of the Throat of the World muttering. It was so soft that nothing else could have heard it, save for him. Three words, that was all he needed.

"_Sos...Yol Dinok!_" Eirik shouted.

The dragon circled over Whiterun, then beat its wings with the fury of the storms upon the heights of High Hrothgar and came to rest on its hind-legs and fore-claws, those which sat upon the tips of its wings, and glared at Eirik.

"Make your peace, Dovakhiin," the dragon growled. "None have dared summon Sosyoldinok! Not even Miraak the First!"

"Oh? And why's that?" Eirik asked.

"My Thu'um is great, my blood is fire!" Sosyoldinok replied. "I bring death!"

"Yet you yield to the Thu'um of Alduin?" Eirik laughed. "So much for the great Sosyoldinok!"

"You will regret those words, maggot!" the dragon roared.

The eyes of the guards of Whiterun snapped open as they saw the dragon swallow Eirik, Thane of Whiterun, in one bite. Some held their breath, others prayed to the Divines - whether eight or nine of them - while others cried out in disbelief or let their jaws hang open. It seemed so unreal that the hero of Whiterun, who had slain the dragon at the western watchtower, was no more than any of them. The dragon lifted its head, as if in triumph, and suddenly gave out a loud roar of pain. The head flailed back to the ground and when it came back up, its lower jaw had been broken, hanging from its mouth as if dead. It had spat something onto the grassy plains, covered in dark red blood, which was slowly rising to its feet. The guards gave a shout of triumph.

Eirik, Thane of Whiterun, was still alive.

"Is that all you got?" Eirik shouted at the dragon. "Come on, then!"

But Sosyoldinok did not reply. When the dragon had tried to swallow him whole, Eirik drove his blade into the dragon's tongue, forcing it to open its mouth. A second slash broke its jaw and dropped him onto the floor. He could only roar at Eirik: even his fire breath was stolen by reason of his severed tongue. But the dragon was not yet defenseless.

The dragon lunged head forward, and Eirik jumped aside, striking with his great-sword at the neck. The dragon balked at the hit, but the scales were too strong to be pierced by even a mighty swing of Eirik's great-sword. Sosyoldinok took a step back, then struck at Eirik again, like a cornered serpent. Eirik held his sword parallel to the ground in a defensive posture, absorbing the strike of the dragon on his blade. He stumbled back with the force of the blow, and could feel his head shaking like the insides of a bell, but was otherwise unharmed.

Again, the dragon lunged at Eirik, but he was even quicker this time. With a mighty horizontal slash, he had broken the dragon's jaw, which fell in a bloody mess onto the grasses below. Sosyoldinok roared in pain, but did not attack again. Seeing that his cause was thus endangered, Sosyoldinok reared up on his hind legs and began to beat his wings. First he would knock down the Dovakhiin with the wind stirred up by his wings, then beat a hasty retreat into the skies, where the puny human could not follow him.

"_Wuld!_" Eirik shouted.

With the force of a whirlwind, Eirik sprinted through the hurricane-force winds beaten by the dragon's wings. Indeed, the two great forces breaking upon each other made such a noise that it reminded those in Whiterun when the Greybeards on High Hrothgar summoned Eirik Dragonborn to themselves: like the voices of the Divines shouting from the highest heights of the Throat of the World. Thunder and drums and many waters clamoring could barely have equaled the might and majesty of the clash between the dragon and the Dragonborn.

But Eirik had seen the dragon make a fatal error. He knew they were weakest underneath, and had rushed through the wind of his wings and had caught his enemy off-guard. With both hands, he drew back his sword and then thrust it it forward, into the belly of the dragon. The beast's whole body shook with the blow, and Eirik's eyes stung as blood was spraying over his face from the blow. With both hands, he yanked the blade out of the dragon's belly, then stepped aside as the dragon fell backwards onto the ground. So great was his fall that the earth trembled beneath Eirik's feet.

Exhausted, Eirik knelt down and began cleaning the blood of his sword, as Sosyoldinok's body burst into flames. Eirik sighed, closing his eyes as he could feel a rush of energy flowing through his body. It was not true energy, for he did not feel any stronger or less exhausted. It was a dragon's soul, which felt like mead to the thirsty tongue, or a warm fire on a freezing cold night.

It was a hero's welcome that greeted Eirik as he arrived at the gates. The guards, led by Caius, commander of the Whiterun Guard, cheered him and offered him drinks at the Bannered Mare for his triumph in slaying another threat to Whiterun. Eirik was exhausted, and told them he would take them up on their offers, but only after he had had a good night's rest. Lastly, Commander Caius limped over to Eirik and saluted him.

"You've done a great service to this city," he said. "We are proud to have you as a thane to the Jarl."

"Thank you, Caius," Eirik replied. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to head to my house. I have come far today and am weary after a long march and that fight with the dragon."

The guards relented, and Eirik made his way slowly into the town of Whiterun. He passed by a group of Hammerfell soldiers arguing with one of the guards at the gate, and the Warmaiden's armory on the right-hand. Breezehome was the small house next door to Warmaiden's, owned by Eirik. After removing the key from his belt - this felt rather awkward, for Nord men rarely held the keys for any house - he opened the door and made his way into Breezehome.

It was a modest house, but definitely better than sleeping in the wilds. It had a fire-pit in the middle of the down-stairs room, with a narrow slit through the second level floor and the roof to let out the smoke. Around this were several cabinets, two chairs, a small table and bookshelves, with a long table at the far end of the room near the pantry. Near the pantry was a door leading to a store-room that smelled of crushed imp stool and powdered elf ears. Between the pantry and the store-room was a ladder that led to the upstairs portion.

Thither Eirik went, walking slowly up the stairs. At the top of the stairs and to the left was the room of his huscarl, and the right passage curled around to his room. Hither he went wearily, pushing open the door. There he found his huscarl sitting at the table in his room, eating. She was a Nord with dark hair and a stern face. She was lithe but not spritely: surely, no petite maiden could ever wear the heavy steel armor, akin to that of her thane, or wield the sword and shield which were resting against the wall.

"Well met, my thane," Lydia the huscarl greeted. "It's good to see you again."

"Aye, it's good to be back in Whiterun," Eirik sighed, as he sat down upon his bed, and began removing his armor.

"How long will you be here?" Lydia asked.

"Just the night," he replied. "In the morning, I'll be heading north. You're coming with me."

"As you wish, my thane," Lydia nodded.

"Now leave me," Eirik said. "I'm weary from the journey, I need to rest."

"Of course," Lydia replied. Placing her food on her plate, she picked up her shield, strapped it to her back and put her sword back into its sheath. Then she picked up the plate of food and walked off to her room. Eirik sighed as he began removing his armor. It had been a long voyage and, Ysmir willing, he had thrown the Thalmor off his trail. Now he would begin his next task. Though it would surely mean a great investment of time, especially against the war effort and his duties to Esbern, Eirik felt that he owed it to her to at least attempt the try.

His next task would take him into the Pale, to the Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft.

* * *

**(AN: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Very much like _Skyrim_, we're just happily making our way to Whiterun, when DRAGON!)**

**(The dragon's name, in the Dragon language, translates as "Blood Fire Death". Yes, in reference to the _Bathory_ album of the same name. Caius' limp will become important later on, so don't forget that. Also, yes, I'm having Lydia in the story as well. I know, she's been done to death [lol], but just wait. It'll all be good in the end, so don't worry.)  
**

**(Also, regarding Eirik, he's obviously something of a bad-ass [I keep getting one-shotted by blood dragons in _Skyrim_, so he got to rip off a blood dragon's lower jaw after being 'swallowed' by one], but he's not like most of my other protagonists: they usually don't egg their opponents on by insulting them. Namely, while he's not going to be some stereotypical Sam Worthington/Jason Statham/Ron Perlman anti-hero douche-bag, he's not a Luke Skywalker white knight good-guy hero either. So that leaves him with more options...hmm...)**


	12. The Thane and the Huscarl

**(AN: You've just given me a great idea for another dragon battle! Also I play the PS3 version mostly because my outdated Toshiba, on which I am typing this, could never support _Skyrim_. I play on Adept, mostly, or at least a level above Novice, and I was 45 before my brothers deleted my progress, knocking me back to 38. And even in the forties, a blood dragon would show up, it would breathe on me or bite me, and then boom! It gulped me down on the next hit. That's why I had it that Eirik cut his way out of the dragon's mouth, sort of my revenge on all those blood dragons [who seemed to be the only ones spawning once I reached late 30s and early 40s] for wiping me so easily!)**

**(You know what I mean by those anti-hero douche-bags? Maybe you like them, but to me, they just get under my skin with how smug they are, thinking they're above everyone and everything [including the gods], and they only do charitable acts if it means they get paid or get to fuck virgins. Well, I'll let you decide what Eirik's like, as you shall soon see [-wink-])  
**

* * *

**The Thane and the Huscarl**

After spending a few hours resting at Breezehome, as it would soon be night, Eirik and Lydia locked up Breezehome and then made their way to the Bannered Mare to share drinks with the Whiterun guard. Mead flowed like water amongst them and after everyone had well drunk, they took turns with tales of their various exploits. Most of the guards had little to tell, mainly just some bandits, an attack by giants, or the antics of Braith, a Redguard child and the town bully. The greatest tales, however, came from Caius, who, in his youth, had left Cyrodiil and traveled the length and breadth of Skyrim. He told of how he had wrestled a troll in the mountains of Haafingar, fought off a whole pack of wolves in the dead of night, and saved Balgruuf the Greater ere he became Jarl of Whiterun. Another source for great tales was Uthgerd the Unbroken. She frequented the Bannered Mare and would, for the right amount of mead, share with them some of the stories of her adventures. She had lived quite a long life and had seen much of Skyrim as well. Of course, unlike Caius or the rest of the Whiterun guard, she never mentioned the Companions, not even through passing in any of her stories.

At last, there came Eirik's turn. He regaled them with a recount of his encounter with Sosyoldinok and how he had single-handedly bested the mighty dragon. Cheers came from all those gathered and they asked for another round of drinks and called for music. While Mikael the Bard began tuning his lute, Eirik made his way to a corner of the inn, where Lydia stood with arms crossed and a look on her face that didn't fit right with the festive mood of the inn.

"Come, Lydia," Eirik laughed. "Must I order you to make merry with us?"

"I'm quite fine where I am, my lord," Lydia replied.

"But you haven't even had one pint!" exclaimed Eirik.

"Someone has to wake your drunk ass up in the morning," Lydia stated. "Or have you forgotten your task into the Pale?"

"No, no, I haven't forgotten it," Eirik replied. "But, come now, Lydia, your lord was spared from the jaws of death! Literally, in fact! Isn't that worth celebrating?"

"With these drunk and lusty men?" Lydia asked, gesturing to the guards. Most of them had joined arms and were dancing about in a circle as Mikael sang the bloody tale of Ragnar den Röda, but some were feeling up some of the women gathered here as well.

"Oh, come now," Eirik slurred drunkenly. "You are my huscarl. If they want to touch you, they'll have to go through me!"

"Considering how drunk you are," Lydia said, rolling her eyes. "I feel _much_ better."

The song ended with everyone chanting "When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor", then the guards burst into cheers and hollers for more. Lydia, ever perceptive, heard the bard begin to pluck the strings of his lute and sing the words of his next song.

_We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone  
For the Age of Aggression is just about done_

"I think we should head home, my lord," Lydia said, placing her hand on Eirik's shoulder. "They're playing the song you hate."

"Oh, right," he replied.

The larger Nord stumbled out of the inn and made his way down the darkened streets towards his house. Near at hand was Lydia, ready to offer her thane her shoulder in case he couldn't make it all the way back to his house.

"You're a good man, Lydia," Eirik said drunkenly.

"Thank you, my thane," she replied.

"I sometimes forget you're a woman," Eirik replied.

"I'd like to keep it that way," Lydia stated.

"Why?" he asked. "You're loyal, you have a quick wit and a fair face."

"But that's all," Lydia replied. "I fear my battles have rendered me barren." She sighed. "But there is more to life than bearing children, I have found. Unfortunately, the other men of Skyrim don't hold with that. So I chose to live the life of a sword-thane, which is what led me to Whiterun and, eventually, to you."

"Uh..." the drunken Eirik mused for a moment. Then realization came to his mind. "Oh, that's awful."

"What do you expect?" Lydia replied. "Can't be going into battle most of my life, taking many blows and wounds, and not expect any consequences."

"That must be a lonely life for you," Eirik stated.

"It's not that bad," Lydia shrugged. "My service to you is all that I need. Now come, my thane. Let's get you back to Breezehome: we have a big day ahead of us."

* * *

Eirik awoke in his bed in Breezehome with a splitting headache. Lydia was already awake, loading supplies into two satchels for the journey. Since it would take at least two days to reach the Pale, they would need supplies that would not spoil easily. In addition to raw foods, there were some salted meats and several flasks for cordials. As it was also colder in the Pale, Lydia packed for them both heavy, fur-lined cloaks, in addition to the blankets for their bed-rolls.

"Do you think we'll need this much?" Eirik asked groggily, as he saw Lydia add a small fagot to her bundle.

"It won't be easy finding fire-wood the farther north we go," Lydia reminded him. "You'll thank me in the end, my thane."

"I suppose I will," Eirik said, rising to his feet. "You've not been wrong about anything yet."

After they had finished up with the packing, they doused the candles, torches and the fire-pit, then locked the door behind them. They took very little gold between them, as they were not planning on staying at every inn along the way, but did not want to miss out on the opportunity should there be an especially cold night. Once Breezehome was securely locked, they split the carrying of the gear between them. Both of them carried a blanket for a bed-roll, along with their cloaks. Eirik had on his back the sheath for his great-sword, and a small sack on his belt as well. Lydia carried her own bed-roll and cloak, and had a sheath on her belt for her sword, a shield on her back, as well as a great-sword of her own. She didn't want to carry much more, but neither would she let her thane carry everything. So, reluctantly, she carried most of the food and cordials.

About an hour after daybreak, Eirik Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun, and Lydia Huscarl left Whiterun and set out across the golden-brown oceans of grass. The sun was high and the day clear, but a chill wind blew down upon them from the north. It made for a beautiful, picturesque day, one of which the bards of Solitude would surely make poems of for later generations to study and imitate. The sun shone from every leaf and blade of golden grass on the fields and on the tops of the snow-capped mountains. The gold and white shone brightly against the great blue sky.

By noon, they had gone as far west as the road could take. They could not cross open country, for there were still perilous beasts upon the wilds. The road shot straight north and then passed on into the mountains, where, according to their map, would pass through Hjalmarch, coming close to the town of Morthal, before making its way back into the Pale. It would be difficult, for the mountain passes were not as safe as they once were. Aside from the usual threat of bandits and packs of wolves, trolls lived in the heights of the mountains. According to the book _Troll Slaying_, trolls became deadlier in higher elevations.

* * *

It was about late-afternoon when they reached the foothills of the mountains that marked the border of Whiterun Hold and Hjalmarch. The road wound up the side of the mountain, but they had learned from some travelers that a pack of bandits were stalking the road, so Eirik and Lydia struck off from the road and were now hiking up the side of the mountain. Needless to say, after many miles on the open plains and now walking up a steadily increasing incline, they were both sweating and panting heavily. Their packs, also, felt much heavier and it didn't make their journey any easier that the snow beneath their feet made their boots slip.

"My thane," Lydia spoke up from the rear. "It would be prudent, next time we're in town, to find a horse. That way, hiking up this damned terrain will be easier...and it can carry your burdens."

"Ha! Complaining already, are you?" Eirik asked.

Lydia groaned in frustration. "Yes, I know, I am your servant as well as your sword and shield, but I'm a fighter, dammit, not a pack mule! I should be up in front, fighting your enemies for you!"

"Leave some glory for me, won't you?" Eirik laughed. He looked up, then got down into a crouched position.

"What is it?" Lydia whispered.

"Do you hear that?" Eirik replied.

From the cliff above their heads, just over the howl of the wind, they could hear voices. With one hand, Eirik reached for his sword while he kept low, sneaking around the under-cut portion of the cliff. The snow crunched loudly beneath his feet, and he feared that he might give himself away just as much as he was sneaking. With one hand cupped against his mouth, he looked up at the cliff and hissed: "_Laas!_"

For one moment, Eirik's mind was awoken to a sixth sense. He could hear the howling wind, feel the icy cold snow about his feet, smell the clean air and enlivening odor of pine-trees, see the side of the mountain all blanketed in snow and the tall, snow-clad trees poking their heads along its flanks, taste the cold, dry air in his mouth...and he could also feel without touching, seeing or hearing, that there were seventeen people within the immediate area. Two, he guessed, were himself and Lydia, which meant that there were at least fifteen bandits just above their heads.

"Alright," Eirik whispered to Lydia. "There are at least fifteen of them. I think we can do this if we go in slowly and pick off the leaders first..."

"To battle!" Lydia shouted, drawing out sword and shield and running up the rest of the hill-side, straight into the bandit-camp.

"No, wait!" Eirik replied, but it was too late. With a frustrated sigh, he took out his great-sword and ran up the hill after her.

They had, more or less, walked right into a trap. Atop the cliff, there was a flat place where the bandits had built a fire. About it were several smaller rises, and upon those rises were three bandits who served as lookouts. These, of course, were the lightly armored ones who wielded bows and arrows and, upon hearing Lydia's battle-cry, turned their attention away from the road and to the side of the cliff. One shot wide and missed both Lydia and the huge Nord coming up behind her. Another one struck Lydia's shield, and another flew at the huge Nord, then _zing!_ It pierced the skin of his right arm, but was left hanging and imbedded in his arm.

"Get him, boys!" the bandit leader shouted.

"Now you'll pay!" Lydia retorted, seeing her thane had been wounded.

With a yell, she charged shield-first into a big Orc; her sheer momentum knocked the Orc down, and she bashed his face with her shield before driving her sword into his gut. From behind, Eirik could see the lookouts drawing back their bowstrings, ready to strike at Lydia in a moment of defenselessness. With a stifled cry of pain, he broke off the arrow from his shoulder, then painfully drew out his great-sword. With all of his strength, he threw the sword through the air like a lance, impaling the farthest lookout and knocking him back as well.

This got the attention of the others. As they turned their attention to him, he charged forward, knocking the first one down to the ground. He turned to the other one, and saw that he had done as he had hoped: he had taken the high ground.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

The sheer force of Eirik's dragon shout was so great, it threw the bandit scout off his perch and sent him flying through the air. They were so high up that the bandit had only to look for a sudden painful crunch upon hitting the ground, getting impaled on the branches of a tree, or hitting every rock on the way down. He turned back to the others, an angry fire burning in his eyes.

Four of the bandits dropped their weapons and ran, but the one Eirik had knocked down was getting back up. The braver ones had formed a loose circle about them, jeering and taunting them on with strikes on their shields and howling wolf calls. Lydia was engaging two at once, having already taken down the Orc. Eirik, meanwhile, walked over to the scout he had impaled, removed his sword and swung it in a wide arc that sent the head of the last scout falling lamely off its neck. The body twitched, then collapsed.

One of the bandits charged straight for him, but Eirik held his sword in place, which broke through the hide shield and sliced open the man's arm. He crumbled, favoring his shield arm as it was soaking the snow on which he lay with hot, crimson blood. Behind, Lydia had seized one of her attackers and used him as a human shield for his sword-wielding companion, who ran him through. She then tossed the body aside and embraced her opponent, running him through the heart with her sword. Six were now dead, one wounded, and four had quit the fight.

Those who remained were the bandit leader and three of his outlaws. The leader was clad in the finest steel armor - stolen, no doubt - and wielded a heavy war-hammer with both hands. One of his mates had an ax in one hand and a sword in the other, another, a half-Orc Breton, wielded a shield and mace and the fourth one, a Redguard woman, had a great-sword like Eirik.

The half-orc and the Nord with the ax and sword rushed at Lydia, while Eirik and the Redguard clashed blades again and again. Both were skilled in the art of the sword and could hold their own against each other. As the swords clanged against each other, jarring violently their hands with the brute force of each blow, one could almost see small flashes of sparks shining where the blades struck. But whether this was certain or no could not be rightly guessed by the combatants: they were too busy watching the moves of their opponents.

Lydia had managed to give the dual-wielding Nord a thrust with her sword that pierced his chest and sent him sprawling to the ground with the bandit with the opened arm. The other one, however, hid behind his shield, periodically beating on hers with his mace. At last she got close enough to impale his foot with her sword, then deliver a swift kick to the groin that brought him down. This one, however, hit her legs with his mace, sending her sprawling down into the snow as well. As the half-Orc was rising up to his feet, she cut off one of his feet at the knee. She drove the sword into its chest once it came crashing back down.

Meanwhile, Eirik and the Redguard were still engaged in their duel. Eirik swung wide, hacking a low-hanging tree branch clean off in one hit. The Redguard came to hack Eirik in half, but, placing his hand on the blade of his sword, he brought it up and blocked the blow, though he could feel the edge of his blade digging into his flesh. He pushed her sword back, then pushed the pommel forward, breaking her nose. Nearby he heard a sudden crack, and heard Lydia groan and hit the snow.

"Stand down, kinsman," Eirik said to the bandit leader. "Your men are slain, wounded or have fled. Surrender now."

"A true Nord never surrenders," the bandit retorted. "Do your worst, milk-drinker!"

Eirik waved the bandit leader to make the first move, which he did by raising back his war-hammer to strike. Eirik dodged the blow and saw it go wide, striking harmlessly on the snow. He watched as the bandit huffed and puffed, trying to lift the war-hammer back into battle readiness. Was he really that weak, or was it the armor he wore that was wearing him down? Or, then again, he had heard rumors about cannibalism in Skyrim, but thought those were the kinds of bogey stories told by the Imperials and Thalmor to paint a picture of the Nords as brutish, backwards and barbaric, eating the flesh of their young who were considered weak and puny, worshiping the chaotic Daedra and the spirits of long-dead dragons.

But he had no time to ponder on it, for the bandit leader had hefted his war-hammer back into position had brought it down on Eirik. He held up his sword with both hands, fending off the hammer-head from caving in his skull. But the bandit leader was not as weak as his cronies had been. A steel-clad knee kicked Eirik in the groin, sending him doubled over in pain. The bandit laughed and lifted his heavy war-hammer back over his head, ready to crush Eirik to a mess of powdered bone and blood beneath him. But he had made the mistake of thinking that his first blow, though taken on the shield, had taken the other one out of the game.

Lydia rushed him shield-first as before, and though he was much bigger and, normally, would not have fallen so easily as his crony had done when she first attacked, he was also heavily clad in armor and therefore much heavier. Her rush tackled them both to the snow, allowing Eirik to recover. Taking up his sword, he walked over to the bandit leader, placed it against his neck and asked the bandit again:

"There's still time to leave."

"Fuck you!"

Without another thought, Eirik hacked the bandit leader's head off with his great-sword, and the blood from his severed neck colored the white snow red. He turned to the others - the Redguard woman with the broken nose, the Nord with the chest-wound and the Nord with his arm cut open and bleeding - who promptly turned tail and ran.

"Pathetic excuses for Nords!" Lydia challenged, banging her sword against her shield.

"No, that's fine," Eirik returned. "Come, let's get rid of the bodies. It's almost night-time, we can scavenge what they left behind in their camp."

"Yes, my thane," Lydia bowed, then began dragging the nearest body away, when she saw the blood coming from Eirik's shoulder. "You're wounded!"

* * *

**(AN: Oddly enough, Aura Whisper isn't a whisper in the game, but I made it one in this, so all's good. Also, I love using Unrelenting Force to shout enemies off high places, so obviously I couldn't resist.)**

**(A silly thing, my brother is of the belief that, when someone is decapitated, their body has enough neurological memory to make the headless body make one final attack against whoever beheaded them. In short, the "running about like a chicken with it's head cut off" metaphor reads out in his mind that the headless chicken has just enough time to scratch the decapitator to death, likewise the headless body of the human has just enough life left in it to hack or shoot an arrow that will hit a successful retaliatory hit. Complete and utter bogus, right?)  
**

**(Oh, what sounds better? Fuck is English, but in German, it's "ficken" and "knulla" in Swedish. Does "Fick you!" sound more...appropriate? Your opinions in the reviews are helpful [and this is M-rated, so I can say whatever damn dirty words I wanna! lol] I do ask about the language because my last semi-medieval story that had language, well, one of the reviewers said I went too far overboard.)**


	13. Trolls in the Dark

**(AN: Fifteen against two...great odds indeed. But I felt that somebody who could slay a dragon and their bad-ass huscarl could do better than four or seven. Maybe that was overkill: how does nine sound? It's the perfect number in Norse lore [like seven in the Judeo-Christian lore], and since _Skyrim_ is heavily influenced by Norse lore, that seems legit.)**

**(As for Lydia, I'm building something up with her, because I actually do listen to your reviews. It's still going to take a while for the best scene to come about, but I will give you something in the meantime, and it will work with the historical and character development. Also, 'fagot' means a bundle of sticks. It's when it's got two g's is when it's the slur against gay people. It's quite archaic, but that's the point, which brings me to 'fuck'. It's not really archaic. They made up euphemisms in the CG _B__eowulf_ movie [like "swife" and "frick"], but then again, that movie sucked something awful, so I didn't want to be associated with that. Now, on to the story.)  
**

* * *

**Trolls in the Dark**

Once the bodies were moved and buried in the snow, Lydia got to work removing the arrow from Eirik's arm and cleaning the wound. She used a shred of clothing from one of the dead bandits for a binding and cleaned it with snow, as there was no water at hand. It froze and stung the wound, but it was better than leaving it open and festering. Among the plunder of the bandits' camp, they found small stock of food. Barely enough to last them the night, but, as they had their own supplies, this did not bother them much. As night was coming on, Eirik stoked the fire, preparing to make them dinner while Lydia was sharpening Eirik's great-sword.

"My thane," Lydia spoke up suddenly. "If I may ask, why are we going into a Dwemer ruin in the Pale?"

"Backing out already?" Eirik teased.

"Yes, for a sword-thane ever seeks to flee from battle!" Lydia feigned, pressing her hand to her breastplate dramatically. "You know I'll defend you with my life and go where you tell me without question. I only ask because I'm curious."

"Well, I suppose you would find out eventually," Eirik said. "And it's best that I tell you now. You remember when I went to Riften?"

"To find the last of the Blades, yes." she nodded.

"I found something else in Riften as well," Eirik began. "There was a woman, a Nord, a fellow adventurer, who had lost her treasured sword in a ruin in the Pale."

Lydia smiled, clicking her tongue cheekily behind her lips. "I see what you're doing, my thane."

"What?"

"Do you think you're the only one who can tease, my thane?" Lydia laughed. "Go on, my lord. Tell me about this woman, this Nord adventurer."

"Her name is Mjoll," Eirik continued. "She's tall, with a strong body and golden-brown hair, like bread baked in a golden bowl."

"She sounds dreamy," Lydia teased. "So, you're going into a haunted Dwemer ruin to find her sword, why? Do you plan on fucking her?"

"I don't know," Eirik replied, as he went to get one of the bandit's heavy cast-iron pots for the stew. "She doesn't seem like one interested in that."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Lydia replied. "You see, women like when men do things for them. Hell, if you're interested, she might even want to marry you. A warrior is nothing without her sword, and returning it to her would be a kind and noble gesture."

"I agree with the last," Eirik said. "I know what it's like to be weaponless."

"So," Lydia continued. "If she asks you for something, would you be interested in fucking her?"

"Maybe, I don't know," Eirik replied.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Lydia laughed. "Do you like men?"

"No," Eirik shook his head. "I just..."

Lydia laughed. "Oh, Divines above! You've never made love, have you?"

"What if I haven't?" Eirik retorted. "What's that to you?"

"You've slain dragons but you've never thrust your sword between a woman's legs?"

"I never knew you were so obscene!" Eirik laughed.

"Like you aren't!" Lydia retorted. She laughed. "Still, you need to know what to do if you intend on laying this Mjoll."

"And do you have any ideas?" Eirik replied.

"Do I look like a whore, my thane?" Lydia stated, sounding offended. "I'm not learned in the art of love-making, nor am I a priestess of Dibella..." She laughed, seeing Eirik's expression of confusion. "Nor am I truly offended. You can tease me, my thane, and I can tease you in return."

"You know why I let you, right?"

"Because you'd be lost without me," Lydia replied.

"Because you're my sword-thane," Eirik said. "I wouldn't trust anyone else at my side in a fight."

"Oh, how poetic!" Lydia replied. "Maybe you should go to Haafingar and share that with the Bard College!"

"Maybe," Eirik jokingly retorted.

"Nonetheless," Lydia continued. "You need to learn how to wield your short-sword before you return to Riften. If we were going to the Reach, I would suggest visiting the temple of Dibella. She's the goddess of love, and some of her followers instruct young lovers how to please their mates."

"That's out of our way," Eirik said.

Lydia sighed. "As you wish. Come, now, let me give you a hand with the food."

"You?" Eirik asked.

"I know how to cook," Lydia replied. "I learned from my mother and during my time as a sword-thane of the Jarl. It's expected that a nobleman's huscarl should know a bit of everything."

They ate potato cabbage soup, which they cooked from the bandit's supply. Once their mouths and their bellies were content, they kept the fire running and Eirik went to sleep, while Lydia insisted that she take first watch. They cleared out some of the snow around the camp-fire, and into the cleared patches they unfurled their bed-rolls. Eirik slept in his, wrapped in his woolen cloak. Lydia sat on hers with her cloak wrapped about herself, keeping an eye on the fire and whatever would lurk beyond.

* * *

Sometime in the middle of the night, as Lydia was starting to nod, she caught herself and saw that the fire was starting to die. She removed a log from the bandit's cache, which was still dry and therefore usable. They had not needed to tear open the bundle of sticks she had brought, which was good, as they still had many long days march ahead of them. As she stoked the embers, she turned to her lord. She looked down at her neck, but frowned as she saw that she had no necklace. The beads upon the amulet and the carvings upon them were specifically fashioned for use in prayer to the Divines. But, perhaps, they would take one from a follower who had no amulet.

"Uh, Dibella?" she began. "Goddess of beauty and love, companion of artists and lovers, hear my supplication. I ask not for myself, but for my lord. Give him that which he desires, though he knows it not. As you will it, great, beautiful Dibella."

As she finished her prayer, the sound of something growling nearby was heard. To a superstitious person, this might be some kind of negative response to Lydia's prayer. But she knew what made that sound. Quietly, she moved over to where Eirik slept and nudged him on the shoulder. Before he could make a sound, she wrapped her hand over his mouth.

"Trolls," she hissed.

Not but a moment later, the roar of a snow troll was heard and Eirik jumped up to a sitting position. Lydia reached for her shield and drew her sword out of its sheath. Eirik got up, and reached for his sword when he saw, just at the edge of the light-glow of the fire, a huge white figure about eight feet high lumbering forward on all fours. He drew out his sword, and prepared to charge at the troll when suddenly, something huge and white swatted him away like a mere fly. Eirik fell hard and, while he hit the snow, there was a rock within the drift and it hurt hitting it.

"My thane"! Lydia shouted. "You know their weakness, use it!"

Eirik pushed himself up off the snow and reached out with one hand. The little camp-fire exploded into a pillar of fire that blew towards the nearest troll without any wind. The troll lunged back, roaring in fear of the fire. Lydia rushed at the troll, striking the beast with her sword. But trolls were made of sterner stuff than bandits, and her sword did not break the skin. As the beast retaliated, Lydia held up her shield, quaking as the massive hand battered on her shield with the strength of two mighty hammer swings. The wood creaked and the metal clanged, and it felt as though the shield would break in Lydia's arm: it held out, but just barely.

"Again!" she shouted back.

The land about bloomed with light as another spout of fire shot out of the camp-fire, striking the troll that was fighting Lydia. The flames caught the troll's wretched hide aflame, and it went lumbering away, trying in vain to put the fire out. Eirik was now on his feet again, with fire between his hands as he turned towards the last troll. He thrust both hands out, and a spout of fire shot out at the troll. This one waved its huge arms about, but that did little to fed off the fire. With a roar, it turned tail and fled from the fire. The flame between Eirik's hands died down.

"It's the smell of blood," Eirik said to Lydia. "From the bandits we slew. We should move, before they come back."

"You think they'll come back?" Lydia asked.

"We didn't kill them," he replied. "We only scared them of. Get the stuff together, we move before dawn."

* * *

**(AN: I hope this fight, while brief, was better than the last one. Obviously, two trolls would be stronger than seven humans, so I thought that was enough, especially since they're snow trolls. Yes, I am building up something with Lydia: one, she and the Dragonborn are obviously good friends [hard not to be with your sword-thane, and one who has fought along side you many times], so they do tease each other sometimes, but they both genuinely care about the other. So she is a little bit more than just an annoyance.)**

**(Also, I could have sworn I found a website that showed Mjoll's age and the names of her parents, but it's not _Elder Scrolls_ wiki or the unofficial one either, and I don't remember the name.)**

**(New chapter will have more stuff in it, don't worry.)**


	14. Oracle

**(AN: I'm sorry, I guess I didn't get the reference, haven't seen _Taken_. Maybe next time we find a troll, I'll use that as an example. Archaic means old or dated, which is appropriate to the usage of 'fagot'. Well, you're getting warmer, but still no dice.)**

**(As for the character building between Lydia and Eirik, yes, I've considered several outcomes. One of which will happen, to sort of hold you over, _Cyrus_, until Eirik finally does get with Mjoll. When I get to that, it will be epic! Also, in addition to having lots of action sequences, I've also inserted some bits of humor [like the camaraderie between Lydia and Eirik], as well as Caius' limp and other things that you just might see in chapters to come.)**

**(Last words, though: the social taboo against morning drinking didn't exist in the Viking or Middle Ages. Now, obviously, _Skyrim_ is a whole different world than ours, so it's quite possible that they had no such taboos, especially in Nordic Skyrim.)**

* * *

**Oracle**

Hjaalmarch was one of the most peculiar regions of Skyrim. Unlike Haafingar and Eastmarch, which were in the same geographical region and had similar climes of freezing cold almost yearly, Hjaalmarch was a marshland. The town of Morthal was built over such a swamp. According to local legends, the town had been built in honor of the hero Morihaus, but had gone through at least four incarnations, due to the instability of building in marshland. The third attempt at the town had burned down under suspicious circumstances, and some of the blackened ruins could still be seen, but the fourth one stayed up.

Morning was just dawning far away in Windhelm when Lydia and Eirik made their way into the town. Both were exhausted from their flight through the mountains and the battle with the trolls. They made their way to one of the large wooden structures, this one bearing a sign with a moon, half lit and half dark. This was the Moorside Inn, the only inn in Morthal. Though they had much of the day ahead of them, they were nonetheless weary and, since they had the coin, they could break their morning fast and be ready to travel before noon. Lydia paid for their food, while Eirik looked about the common room. It was quite bare, save for an Orc sitting by the fire and three figures nearby, hooded and cloaked.

"...glad to have you here," the proprietor of the inn, a Redguard woman, said to Lydia. "We don't get much business here, mostly because we're so close to Solitude, many travelers would rather go the whole way rather than stop here. I think it's because of Lurbuk, the Orsimer." She pointed to the Orc. "He's the only regular customer, which is why I let him stay here. His coin is good."

"But?" Lydia asked.

"He's the worst bard in Skyrim," the innkeep whispered. "Maybe in all of Tamriel."

"Who are the others?" Eirik asked.

"A coven of priestesses," the Redguard replied. "They're on their way from Morrowind to Markarth, to visit the Temple of Dibella."

"They're devoted to Dibella?" Lydia asked curiously.

"Come on," Eirik said to Lydia. "Let's find a seat and have our meal."

They sat down close to the fire and waited for their meal. While they waited, the Orc struck up a dissonant tune on his lute and began a rasping growled rendition of that song which Eirik hated the most. The melody and structure came from an old Nordic folk song about drinking from how far back, only the Divines knew. During the civil war, the song had been adopted by both sides as their anthem and propaganda against the other: no one knew who adapted the song with the lyrics pertaining to the civil war first, and there was always disagreement over which side adapted it first and which one stole the song and added different lyrics to suit their end. Usually, the explanation changed depending on who was in charge of which ever area.

_We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone  
For the Age of Aggression is just about done_

"Nines, give me the patience!" Eirik sighed, burying his face in his hands.

"This is even worse than Mikael's version," Lydia stated. "Not that I'd always stay for the whole thing, he usually tried hitting on me if he noticed I was there. Never bothered Uthgerd, though. I guess her reputation makes him afraid to trifle with her."

_We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own  
With our blood and our steel, we will take back our home_

"It's a disgrace," Eirik said. "This land isn't the Empire's. It might have been so once, but it's not Cyrodiil. This land belongs to the Nords, not the Cyrodilians."

"I don't care much," Lydia replied, draining her tankard. "Jarl Balgruuf has kept Whiterun neutral throughout most of the war, but I fear that it won't last long. Before the year is out, if it gets that desperate, Whiterun might be leveled."

Eirik banged his head in frustration as the song continued, singing what he considered highest blasphemies. The Cyrodilians were not native to Skyrim and they believed not in Sovngarde, the home of the honored dead. Just hearing those words used that way made Eirik angry. He reached for his empty tankard and turned towards the Orc, who continued his ungodly shriek.

"I think I could hit him from here," Eirik said, eying up his target.

"Not now, my thane," Lydia retorted. "I don't want to get thrown out before we get to eat."

"That was surprisingly level-headed of you," Eirik replied, placing his tankard down.

"Well, someone has to keep their wits about them when you lose yours," Lydia replied with a smirk.

Thankfully, the song ended when the food came. There was no applause. Eirik and Lydia ate wholesome rye bread with butter and cheese, along with cooked meats and warm soups. It had a different taste than what they had eaten in the wilds, but was nonetheless satisfying. As they were eating, one of the hooded figures approached and placed their hand on Lydia's shoulder. She reached for her sword.

"Do not be alarmed," an elvish voice said. "I come in peace, offering only the blessing of Dibella."

"Why not?" Eirik shrugged. Though he kept his eyes on the elvish devotee.

"May Dibella smile on you, friend," the devotee said to Lydia. "May she show you what you must do. May it be soon."

"Uh, thank you?" Lydia asked. "I'm sorry, but that doesn't sound like a prayer to Dibella?"

"I'm sorry, what?" the elf asked.

"What you just said," Lydia replied.

"I said something?" the devotee returned. "I thought it was you."

"Just tell us how much we owe you," Eirik said. "We're leaving shortly and I won't be in anyone's debt."

"Owe? I...I'm sorry, I haven't the faintest clue as to what you're saying. Now, if you'll excuse me..." The devotee bowed, saying to both of them "Dibella bless you," before she left.

"What was that about?" both Lydia and Eirik asked with one voice.

* * *

It was earlier than they had expected when they finally left Morthal and returned to the road. They had only a bit of back-tracking to make, but the day was clearer than yesterday, so they had high hopes of reaching the Pale before nightfall. The day wore on and they had no encounters. On and on they went and they soon left the marshland behind them. They were now walking through a wooded area: most of the trees were pines, their evergreen branches heavy with snow. Eirik paused for a moment in the march, leaning against a nearby tree.

"I think you're right, Lydia," he said. "We _do_ need a horse."

There was no response. Eirik looked back and saw that Lydia was not there. He looked all around, but saw no sign of his huscarl. He called her name several times over and over, but there was still no response. Fearing the worst, Eirik drew out his great-sword and retraced his steps. He looked behind every tree, every rock and called out her name, but there was no answer. He feared that something had happened to her, which surprised him. She was quite capable, and yet here was proof that she was not with him anymore.

He had ran back almost half a mile from where he was when he discovered that Lydia was not with him. Here there was no snow on the ground, but a chill air blew in from the north, which made the hair on Eirik's arms stand up and his heart beat faster with excitement. Nords loved the cold, for it was their home and everywhere, even in the Rift in the south, summer was never as hot as in Cyrodiil. But even the ecstatic atmosphere of his native home was not enough to make him forget the loss of his companion. He ran about, calling her name, and looked every tree. Suddenly, when it seemed that he had lost her for good, he heard a woman's voice call out his name in response.

It was faint and distant, and almost sounded in pain. Eirik drew his sword, eager to hack off as many heads as needed to save Lydia from whatever mess she had gotten herself. With a loud battle-cry, enough to send even the Thalmor running in fear, he charged off the path and ran in the direction from which he had first heard the voice. He crashed through pine-tree branches, the needles gently scratching his face as he rushed through them, coming into a nearby clearing. There he saw Lydia, leaning against a nearby tree and half bent over.

"Lydia!" he cried out. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

"What?" Lydia asked, raising her head. "Oh, thane! Good to see you again. I'm sorry, what happened?"

"Did you leave the path without asking my permission?" Eirik asked.

"I did?" she replied. "But that's impossible. I am your sword and your s..."

"Well, you _did_ leave my side," Eirik continued. "Why? Whatever drew you to this..." He looked about, seeing nothing much in this clearing of green pine-trees. "...uh, clearing...that would cause you to leave my side?"

"What, you didn't hear it?" Lydia asked. "The voice, coming from this spot, this very clearing."

"I didn't hear anything," Eirik answered, his voice warily. "And I can understand the language of Dragons. Lydia, is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, I don't worship dragons," Lydia snickered, rolling her eyes. "I heard a voice, a woman's voice, calling me to this place. It was the strangest thing. I heard a voice, but I wasn't afraid. The voice made me feel...safe. I knew that nothing bad would happen."

"But why did you come here?" Eirik asked.

"She asked me to come here."

"Who did?"

"I didn't hear a name," Lydia continued. "But when I came here, I saw a woman with golden hair, wreathed about her legs in flame up to her thighs. She...she told me things..."

"Who was it?" Eirik asked again.

"It looked like the images of Dibella," Lydia replied. "But the carvers underestimate her beauty. By the gods, she's beautiful!"

"You met Dibella? The goddess Dibella?"

"And why not?" Lydia asked, crossing her arms and looking at Eirik with a tone of condescension, one eyebrow raised. "The daedra have been known to appear before mortals before. If the daedra exist, then why not the aedra?"

"I'm not arguing here," Eirik replied. "It's just...surprising. What did she want of you?"

"Come with me," Lydia said, taking Eirik by the hand and leading him to the center of the clearing. Once there, she looked this way and that, making sure that no one and nothing was about. Then she removed her sheath and threw it on the ground. Then she placed her shield next to it.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Eirik asked.

"Come on, now, off with the armor," Lydia said, as she began removing her wrist-guards.

"What?"

"You heard me!" she replied, tossing one steel wrist-bracer next to her shield. It clattered loudly against it.

"Why?"

"That's what Dibella told me," Lydia said, addressing herself to the next one. "Now stop talking and take off your armor."

Eirik removed his great-sword and thrust it with both hands into the ground at his right, opposite the steadily growing pile of armor Lydia was making. He addressed himself to his breastplate while Lydia had already removed hers and was taking off the leather under-armor that went beneath her steel breastplate.

"And just why are we doing this?"

"Just do it," Lydia replied. "I'm already uncomfortable about this as it is."

"What?"

"Dibella told me that she's seen the future," Lydia continued. "She commanded that I instruct you how to properly fuck a woman, now stop complaining and hurry up with your armor!"

"But why?" Eirik asked, throwing off his breastplate along with his other gear.

"Why?" Lydia laughed as she added her the skin padding that was the last layer of her breastplate. "Most men wouldn't even bother taking off the armor if a woman said to them what I did. They'd be tearing my armor off with their teeth!"

"I'm sorry, I just never considered you as, well, you know..."

"Neither did I," Lydia said. "But the Divines demanded it."

"But why? I mean, didn't you ask?"

"Of course I asked!" Lydia shouted, as her belt refused to come undone. "I don't open my legs for anyone, not even if Balgruuf himself asked it of me."

"And?" Eirik began removing his wrist-guards.

"She said it was important to the future of Tamriel or something," Lydia replied. "Even so, you need to learn this some day."

Eirik paused in amazement for a moment, then suddenly felt the heavy steel buckle of Lydia's belt hit him in the chest.

"Why did you stop?"

"I'm just...surprised," Eirik replied. "That the Divines would think so highly of me."

"They _do_ call you the Dragonborn," Lydia continued. "Now hurry up."

Without further words, they removed the rest of their armor, leaving two piles of steel and leather lying on the ground next to their packs. Lastly, they removed their boots, and stood barefooted upon the soft grass of the clearing. Eirik was clad in simple brown trousers, but his chest was open beneath his armor and Lydia saw that he cut quite the impressive figure. Broad shoulders and taunt skin stretched tightly over his muscled arms and chest were interrupted here and there by old scars and he had, like most Nord men, hair in modest quantities on his chest.

"Not bad," Lydia replied, arching one eyebrow coquettishly.

Beneath her armor, Lydia was clad in dark pants and a sleeveless golden-brown shirt, with an amulet with a single ruby upon it resting over her breasts, still concealed. She was lithe and slender, but her arms, pale and hairless, showed the many scars of her own adventures. There was something all too inviting about her tiny body, even clad as she was. Eirik became aware that his mouth was drying and his trousers were starting to grow tighter.

"Okay, let's get this over with," Lydia rolled her eyes, then stepped closer to her lord. "Now, the first thing you have to know is to take your time. A Nord woman might take longer to arouse than most other women, but once you get them going, they're like saber cats."

"Is that good?"

"Shh!" she placed her hand over his mouth. "Stop talking, just follow my lead."

"But why?" Eirik moved her hand off from his mouth. "I mean, you yourself said you're not...experienced."

"I might not be a whore," Lydia replied. "But I'm a woman, and I know what a woman wants." She wriggled her hand free from Eirik's grip, but held it still. With her other hand, she reached up and grabbed Eirik by the hair of the back of his head and pulled his mouth onto hers. She held them together, only breaking apart what felt like a minute later to breathe.

"Very good, very good indeed," Lydia said. "A first kiss creates a lasting impression. You're certainly strong, that much I can tell. Now kiss me again." She pressed her lips onto Eirik's, while her hand still holding Eirik's moved it down to her hip, placing it firmly on her taut hindquarters.

"Don't be afraid," she said in between kisses. "To touch her. That's important...very important." She wrapped her arms around his body, her fingers tracing the scars across his back. They continued kissing, Lydia's tongue sliding between Eirik's lips while her hand crept back down to her ass, lifting Eirik's hand up her side.

"Mmm," she moaned, pulling her tongue out. "Nord women have only two soft spots on their bodies. If you can use them wisely, she will never want for anyone else."

She took a step back and unfastened her shirt, throwing it onto the pile of armor. Beneath her shirt, her pale body was just as scarred as Eirik's, though it was tempting and felt soft beneath Eirik's fingers. She released her hold on Eirik's hand, then removed the linen binding about her breasts and let them hang loose.

"These are one," she said, reaching out and taking Eirik's hand in her own and placed it on her left breast. It was softer than anything Eirik had ever felt, and he saw Lydia bite her lower lip. She then continued kissing him, while her hands began removing his trousers. Once the belt was off, she let them fall, then cast a curious eye downward.

"Typical," Lydia replied. "Takes very little to raise a man's sword." She stepped back. "Not so with a woman." She turned about, showing Eirik her bare, smooth back, crisscrossed with scars and curtained by her midnight-colored hair. Walking backwards, she pressed her back against Eirik's chest. She let out a quiet moan as her back seemed to meld into Eirik's firm chest.

"Put your hands where they belong," she said, placing both of his hands on both of her breasts. With her head leaned against his shoulder, she turned to him and continued kissing him. For one moment, Eirik forgot everything - the dragons, the civil war, the Thalmor: he and Lydia were the only ones in this world, and all he felt were Lydia's back against his chest, her hands caressing his face, and the soft flesh of her bosoms beneath his fingers. He liked the way she wriggled against his chest, rubbing her back into him.

But while they were kissing, Eirik's eyes closed, Lydia's hands had worked their way down to her hips and let fall her trousers. With a gentle nudge, she pushed her way out of Eirik's embrace and let him view her body. It was the first time Eirik had seen a woman fully naked. It was strange and yet oddly mesmerizing that she had nothing between her legs as he had.

"This is the second one," Lydia said, covering her lap with one hand. "If you go straight for this one, it will cause her great pain. You have to feel these..." She passed one hand over her breasts. "Worship her body, take your time. It will be worth it in the end." She then gestured with his hand that he kneel down. Once they were both kneeling, she pushed her body up against his, wrapping her arms around him and pressed her lips against his as she kissed him determinedly. She now had him on his back, stretched out upon the grass with her body stretched over his. She parted, looking down at Eirik, with her hair as two dark curtains on either side of her head.

"You're afraid," Lydia said. "I can feel your sword quivering beneath me. You've never gone this far with a woman, you're trembling. Don't be, you can never show her you're afraid: you have to be confident, firm, yet gentle. Don't be afraid to show her how strong you are!" Slowly, she began descending down her lord's chest, kissing him all the way down. Suddenly, Eirik felt very aware of something growing. He looked down, but all he could see was the top of Lydia's head over his lap. Suddenly, she lifted her head dramatically, gasping loudly.

"But you want it," Lydia replied. "I know you want it." She licked her lips seductively. "But you have to save yourself. Take your time."

She crawled back over him, then rolled over onto her side, tumbling over him and onto her back on the grass. Eirik leaned over and began to move towards her mouth to kiss her, but Lydia placed her hand on his mouth. She shook her head, then looked down at her own body. Slowly, Eirik scooted down, until his head was floating between her legs. A hand came down, opening the way for him, while the other gently pulled his head in, then went back to her own breast. Suddenly, as he went in, he felt something had happened. Lydia tensed up, wrapping her legs around his upper body. The insides of her thigh, pressed tightly against his cheeks, were milky white and softer than cream.

"Yes, my thane!" Lydia moaned. "Oh, sweet Dibella, I've forgotten!"

The deeper he went, the more Lydia responded. She arched her back and moaned on and on and louder. Her legs, which were laying on Eirik's back, pressed firmly into his back and her hips were slowly, just barely and hardly noticeably, starting to quiver against Eirik's cheeks. Suddenly, he felt something strange in his mouth and pulled back.

"What?!" Lydia cried out. "Why did you stop?"

"You're...um..."

"Don't stop!" she breathed.

Her hand moved from her breast and shoved Eirik's face back into her flesh. He felt his head growing light, almost as though he had been struck on the head by a mace. His dry mouth was dry no more. Lydia leaned up, one hand supporting her while the other pulled Eirik's head up.

"I'm ready, now," Lydia breathed. "On your back."

As Eirik turned around, Lydia crawled over on all fours, turned about and climbed on top of Eirik, wrapping her thighs around his hips.

"A woman's loins grow wet the more you arouse her," Lydia sighed. "Don't be afraid." She pushed herself up on her knees, then suddenly Eirik felt his sword wrapped in a warm, wet sheath, as soft as Lydia's skin.

"Oh!" she moaned, as her ass pressed against Eirik's lap. "It's big!" She pushed against his sword, moaning as she pushed against him. Then, without another word, she began gently rocking up and down upon him. Slowly and gently at first she went, but then she slowly began bouncing faster and pushing against him harder. Loud moans escaped her lips, and she swung her head about, gasping and calling out Eirik's name and that of Dibella. She leaned in, clawing his chest with her fingers, with the other reached up into her hair.

"You can last longer than that!" Lydia growled. "Hmm? You have to, to please a woman properly. Oh! Oh, gods, that's...ah! Yes, keep fucking me! Ah! Oh, keep your sword in there, it won't harm me, I'm barren, remember? Agh! But if you don't want her to bear, then don't...ah!" She looked down at herself.

"What?" Eirik breathed, his head coming to rest on the grassy floor of the forest.

"Don't fire it inside her loins!" Lydia replied, gasping.

But Eirik's head was swimming. He felt strangely weary and light-headed. He could scarce hear Lydia berating him for how he should have lasted longer, his eyes rolled back into his head and he knew no more.

* * *

**(AN: How was that?)**

**(Here's a challenge for me. _LiliXLover_'s fic, about Aela and male Dovahkiin, had multiple sex scenes, but it didn't take away much from the story. That's what I want for this story. You've had one, I guarantee there will be another one. I've never had more than one in my stories [one and a half in _Siegfried_ and _Ivy_, but that doesn't exactly count, because the half one was, well, just read the story and you'll see])**


	15. Secrets of the Dwemer

**(AN: We haven't left Hjaalmarch yet, so don't worry, something might happened. After all, we didn't have an action scene in the last chapter, and this one is going to end up being really long, maybe even in two parts.)**

**(As far as the main conflict goes, Mjoll hasn't taken a side and she's going to end up with someone who _has_, and he will try to convince her to join the Stormcloaks, but in the process, learns some rather interesting things in the process. It will take time, so just be patient.)**

* * *

**Secrets of the Dwemer  
**

Eirik awoke as the sun was peeking through the trees. The air was cold, yet Eirik's whole body was warm. As he opened his eyes, he saw that he was draped in one of the woolen cloaks, and there, with her dark-haired head resting on his chest, was Lydia, still fast asleep. He was about to rouse her, when she moaned and lifted her head from off his chest.

"Good morning, my thane," she greeted.

"The same," Eirik groaned. "Did we..."

"Yes," she said, pushing herself up slightly. "But you came too soon. Have to learn to hold yourself together until _she_ is ready."

"I'm sorry."

"It was your first time, so I forgive you," Lydia said. She then looked at her lord, then down at their naked bodies. "What? We've shared a bedroll before. Don't be so naive, like those milk-drinking Cyrodilians."

"What do you mean?"

"Come now, my thane," she said, pushing herself off his body. "We've slept together for warmth on cold nights before, this is nothing new. Traveling Nords of both sexes often sleep together for warmth when the weather is harsh. Now, let us be off. If we move swiftly, we can reach the Pale before...Eirik!"

Eirik rose up at her cry, and saw her half-clad, putting on her under-shirt, when she saw something at the edge of the clearing. The body of a Nord male, stripped of its clothing, was laying on the grass. Eirik wrapped the cloak about him and approached Lydia, who was examining the body. She turned it over and saw that it was dead, obviously, but its skin was so pale that it was white like snow. It's face had been severely beaten and cut, but its mouth was still open, revealing a mouth of sharp teeth, like those of a wolf. Upon its bare chest was carved in the Nord's own blood a spilled goblet and words below. They read this cryptic message:

_Night Eternity descends, seek the Dawnguard._

"Do you know what this means?" Lydia asked.

"I was about to ask you that same question," Eirik replied, reaching for his trousers.

"No," she shook her head. "I've never heard of them. But that emblem, that's the mark of Stendarr, the god of justice. It's said he despises all the evil things in Tamriel. But this..." She pointed to the creature.

"What do you think?"

"Vampires," she replied. "What should we do, my thane?"

"We should be patient," Eirik returned. "We'll have to ask around about this Dawnguard before we do anything. As it stands, we have to reach the Pale before dusk. Shall we be off?"

"Aye," Lydia replied. "But first, let's get ourselves back into our armor."

* * *

Lydia and Eirik departed from the clearing less than an hour later, fully clad and armored. They made their way back to the road from the clearing and continued along. Eirik now walked the path for the third time, as he had gone there once when he had lost Lydia and gone over them again when searching for her. He knew the path better than anyone, so he felt, and so he took the lead. The trees were soon covered in snow, until the road itself became quite covered over.

The trees failed and the road passed by a valley to its right. In the midst of the valley were many large structures of stone, with ancient golden-bronze furnishings upon them. These were the tell-tale signs of a Dwemer ruin, the last remnants of one of the greatest kingdoms of Elf-kind. There was not a single place in Skyrim, it was said, where their ruins could not be found. Whatever catastrophe had befallen them that had left their ancient empire intact and yet had driven all of its people to extinction, almost none in Skyrim could speak of it truthfully and with authority.

The two Nords walked towards the large gates and saw a deserted camp lying about them. Eirik guessed that bandits used the ruins as a base, and were out hunting for travelers upon the roads. They prepared for their entry into the ruin by taking out a few sticks from the fagots and wrapping them around the head of two larger branches that were upon the ground. Lydia and Eirik placed these aside, then pushed the huge, golden-bronze doors open and Eirik then used his flames spell to light the two torches: they passed silently through the open doors, torches in hand.

Once they entered the cold, stone hallway, it seemed as though they had entered a whole new world. It was not like the difference between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, or Hammerfell and Morrowind, but as though this was a world apart from Tamriel, apart from Nirn all together. The masonry was nothing like anything in Skyrim or Cyrodiil, smooth and featureless. Only centuries upon centuries had given any sign of wear to the stones. Huge bronze machines worked endlessly, spouting steam and continuing to grind away on seemingly unstoppable gears. Metal pounding against metal left the halls jarringly loud and noisome. In such a place, pursuit could hide easily. Lydia kept her sword in her other hand while her torch was held aloft.

Suddenly, to the percussive _clang clong_ of gears pounding and grinding against each other was added the skittering of metal upon stone. Eirik suddenly gave a cry as a heavy weight knocked him to the ground. Lydia saw a strange metal thing, like a spider, with a single eye atop its body, had jumped upon Eirik and was pecking at him with its tiny hands. Lydia threw her torch down and picked up the metal spider with her bare hands. Straining with the weight of it, a little over half her own weight, she threw it against the wall. But the mechanical spider was faster than that, and it clung to the wall and ran for her. A huge blade ran the little spider through, pinning it to the ground. With a groan of steel against metal, Eirik wrenched his sword free.

"Damn Dwemer constructs!" Eirik grumbled. "If only they'd stop running."

"Well, we're here for a good reason, my thane," Lydia said, picking up her torch. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Eirik replied. "That thing just caught me by surprise is all." He picked up his torch. "Come on, now. Let's get moving."

"From what I hear," Lydia continued. "This was just the least of our worries. These Dwemer workers are an annoyance, but they can be easily defeated. Spheres are what you want to watch out for: metal balls that turn into warrior-machines. I've heard of other things, but I haven't been in many ruins myself, so I can't say. There are rumors of worse things, though, the deeper you go into these ruins, and others. Beware of the dark corners, there might be Falmer."

"Falmer?"

"Snow Elves," Lydia replied. "As far as the legends go, they used to inhabit Skyrim, until the ancestors of the Nords came here. For a time, they left our fathers in peace, but then they attacked Saarthal, killing all but three. This was the Night of Tears, a time of great woe spoken of with sadness and anger by our ancient bards. But Ysgramor survived and his two sons, and they returned full of vengeance. They drove the Snow Elves from the surface in a great war that eventually solidified Nordic rule of Skyrim. The Falmer went underground and were seemingly lost, until adventurers began reporting sights of strange creatures in the deepest, darkest caverns and Dwemer ruins."

"What were they?"

"I'm not sure," Lydia said. "The Dwemer have never been a great study of mine. I only know about how they fit into the lore of our elders. Everyone knows of Ysgramor and the Night of Tears, at least every Nord. Did you know, when Ysgramor returned to Skyrim, full of vengeance, he brought with him only five hundred warriors? They were called Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions, and those who hold berth at Jorrvaskr take their name from that ancient company."

"Come on now, Lydia, let's keep it quiet," Eirik said, sheathing his sword and holding aloft his torch. "I don't want to be taken by surprise again. You can tell me the rest later."

"As you wish, my thane."

"Shall we go on, then?"

"You lead, I'll follow."

* * *

They went through the dark, seemingly deserted passage-ways, down several levels and along long corridors. The endless grind of machinery wound along as they walked, hiding pursuit, or the sound of traps being sprung. And traps there were, for the ancient Dwemer guarded their kingdom with the most deadly of traps that, even after centuries if not millennia, still functioned with lethal accuracy. In the dark, the triggers for such traps were harder to find, which meant that Lydia and Eirik had to be extra careful to avoid being burned by a fount of fire or scythes that would rise up from the floor.

As they went on, the darkness started to grow, and they were on the look-out for Falmer. They were now in their territory, they could smell it in the air. The Dwemer halls smelt of oil and the strong musk of machinery. But the lower levels smelled of rot and filth a thousand years ugly, wet and foul. The air was dank and thick, choking them as they breathed it in. The torches seemed very dim and weak before the gloom that waited them. It cast very little light on anything, save for the floor. It was here that the two Nords saw one of the large Dwemer constructs. It was about man-high and made all of bronze metal. It appeared to have been hacked to pieces by crude weapons and was covered in black blood.

Among the broken metal was another body, shriveled and pale. With Lydia holding her torch up, Eirik examined the body. It was bald and had large pointed ears, but Eirik didn't want to touch it. The flesh looked as though it was afflicted by some horrible plague of undeath, as though it were slowly and painfully rotting from the outside inward. The face was not much better. Flat and nose-less, its eyes were tiny and glassy, as though this pitiful beast had either been born blind or never had use for eyes this far south and so had promptly lost them to atrophy.

"What do you suppose this is?" Eirik asked.

"Falmer," Lydia said. "Don't touch it, though: it looks leprous."

Eirik turned away from the dead Falmer and to the Dwemer construct. From it he guessed that this was the scene of some attack by these Falmer creatures against one of the Dwemer constructs. They had won, but one of their comrades had fallen and they left it for dead.

"Come, let's strip this machine down," Eirik said. "Adrianne and Ulfberth at Warmaiden's will pay handsomely for some Dwemer scrap metal."

"A good idea, my lord," Lydia replied. She then proceeded to stand by while Eirik tore heavy pieces of metal off the fallen creation. She didn't even ask to carry any. Eirik rolled his eyes, as he tried to break the pieces down even smaller. They were heavy and weighed him down, but it would all be worth it once they returned to Whiterun, for they must needs pass through Whiterun on their way to Riften.

Thus laden, they continued through the dark caverns. The jarring sound of machinery had died down, but here they could hear other sounds in the darkness. Apart from faint, distant drip of steady water, there were shuffling and skittering all around. Here also when they whispered, their voices echoed and reverberated off the stone walls and floor and ceiling and were much amplified.

"We've been lucky so far," Lydia stated. "There hasn't been any confrontation."

"Just wait until we have to get out," Eirik hissed back. "These Thalmor might have devolved, but they can still make weapons and armor and huts, from what we saw back there." They had seen a single hut in the darkness, made out of some kind of animal flesh and bone, but it smelled so bad that they refused to step in it for any gold.

"I wouldn't put it past them that they are trying to trap us," Eirik continued. "They know these caves better than we do, and they don't have to see, whereas our sight is limited to how far our torches shine. They'll wait until we're deep within this cave, and have only one way to come out: back the way we've come. _Then_ they'll strike."

There was only deafening silence in the caves, which made their footsteps and the clank of their armor and their breath loud, boisterous and no secret. If anyone was following them, they felt, it would be no hard task to follow their trail. Yet no pursuit had come about, whether by the mercy of the Divines or, as Eirik believed, that the Falmer were planning a trap. Lydia didn't believe they were capable of such an action, but Eirik did. He hated these dark, foul maggot-holes and wanted out as soon as possible. Why had the Falmer chosen to live in such horrible conditions, when the Dwemer had such fine mansions left over for them? Or, perhaps, Eirik knew not the full story and judged what he saw only by current appearances?

At last, however, they felt something harder than pebbles and mud underfoot. In the distance, they could hear the sound of machinery clanging on. Their hearts leaped, for, at least, the Dwemer ruins were still well lit. Even their lighting had not died out, though the Dwemer people were no longer about to make use of it.

They passed through another empty corridor and soon came to a wide room with a high ceiling. The way forward was barred by a series of rooms partitioned by bronze grates that made small, cubicle rooms. There were about six of them, arranged two rooms wide by three rooms long, and at the farthest end was the way back.

"Puzzles," Lydia commented. "Why did the ancient Dwemer have to make everything so confusing?"

"There seem to be a lot of levers," Eirik said, gesturing to those sitting upon stone pedestals and on the floor. "One in each room and another here."

"Don't pull them, my thane!" Lydia exclaimed. "It could be another trap."

"Well, we _have_ to keep going," Eirik replied. He reached out and pulled the lever back.

There was no trap, but the bars of one of the grates lowered. None of them made towards the opened room.

"You stay here," Eirik said. "I'll go ahead and see if the coast is clear."

"No, my thane," Lydia replied, stepping in Eirik's way. "_I_ should go. If you die, who will slay the dragons in Skyrim? You're much too valuable alive than dead."

"So are you," Eirik retorted. "And since I'm the thane, you shall wait here and guide me. It might be easier, having a second pair of eyes that can see this puzzle from without as well as from within. Plus, you can keep me alerted in case there are enemies beyond."

Lydia sighed. "As you wish, but take care, my thane."

"I always do," Eirik shrugged, then turned and walked into the room. He turned to his right, then walked into the second room and pulled a lever. Another room opened and he walked into it, pulling the lever.

"The grates have closed," Lydia said. "Try activating them in a different order!"

Eirik walked back to the second room and pulled the lever. Two doors opened. Eirik walked into the first room and held out his hand to pull the lever.

"Wait, don't touch it!" Lydia called back. "Turn around, another room has opened! Go in there."

Heeding the council of his huscarl, Eirik entered the new room and pulled the lever. Another room opened and he pulled that lever.

"Well?"

"There's nothing here," Eirik replied.

"What? Are you sure?"

"There are no more levers," Eirik continued. "All I see is an old valve."

"Don't turn it, it might be a steam trap..."

But turn the valve Eirik did and suddenly all the grates were pulled away up towards the ceiling. All the rooms now lay open to them. Eirik walked back and punched Lydia's shoulder.

"It's just as frustrating when you ignore what I say," Eirik jested.

"It's different!" Lydia replied.

"Come, now," he said. "We've beaten the puzzle, let's away into the next room."

They crossed the now defunct puzzle and found that, just up ahead, the corridor bent to the left. Thither they turned, passing by a huge bronze pipe that still hissed quietly of steam. After the left-hand turn, the tunnel opened upon a wide room with a staircase. The lights here were old and flickered ominously as they passed, making everything dim and eerie. As they looked upon this room, they saw a grim sight upon the walls and floor: blood. Human blood, darkened as though it had been there quite a long time, but it was not the black blood of the Falmer.

"It looks like someone had their last stand in this room," Lydia spoke, her voice echoing ominously on the walls of the room.

Surely enough, the signs were horrific. There was blood staining the floor and upon the walls and small pillars about, there were streaked, desperate hand-prints in blood upon the walls. There was so much blood here, Eirik was almost certain that whoever came here had surely died..._It was Aerin who found me dying outside of a Dwemer ruin. If he hadn't brought me here and nursed me back to health, I would have died. _Eirik remembered how Mjoll's voice quivered when she recounted this, and how she seemed so unsure and fearful. This dreadful ruin, he presumed, was the place where she had almost fallen. Quite a horrible place, he mused, to die in, lost in darkness, away from friends, family...loved ones...

So quiet had they been, the sound of hissing steam and grinding gears was like the roar of a dragon and the pounding of great stones thrown down upon the mountains as if from the heavens. Eirik and Lydia turned about and saw it, lumbering out of a niche in the walls. It was huge, easily the size of a giant, and twice as heavy if not more. It was fashioned all in bronze, and it had not hands, but two great weapons on the ends of its arms: its left arm was a great battle-ax, and its right arm ended in a pounding war-hammer. Its thick legs seemed to be clad in heavy armor that made the walls of the room shake and quiver as it stomped towards them.

Thus it was, deep within the darkness of Mzinchaleft, that Eirik Dragonborn and Lydia the huscarl saw a Dwemer centurion, the most powerful of animunculi crafted by the ancient Dwemer. With the strength of a giant and hide as strong as a giant's, it was easy to see how Mjoll could have been brought almost to death by facing this behemoth.

"Come on, now!" Lydia shouted, drawing her sword in one hand as she tossed aside the torch with the other to reach for her shield.

"Wait, don't attack it head-on!" Eirik shouted.

But it was too late. With shield raised, she swung a mighty blow at the centurion's leg, but its dense armor turned the blow. She struck again, but her sword clanged uselessly against it. She swung again, but the centurion now raised its hammer up to strike down upon her.

"Move!" Eirik ordered.

Lydia barely had any time to move before the hammer-hand smote the pavement on which a moment ago she had been standing. She tumbled down, pushed back by the sudden strike. Eirik, meanwhile, had drawn out his great-sword and with all his might struck at the centurion's leg. The sword clanged as it struck solid Dwemer steel, and a gash an inch wide was left in the metal as he pulled it out. But just seeing that and how big the centurion was and how many more hits he would have to make with this weapon in order to bring it down successfully made this task nigh impossible.

"Lydia!"

"At your side, my thane!" she replied, rising to her feet.

"Do you have a great-sword?"

"Aye."

"Take it out now, attack when I say 'strike', are you ready?"

Lydia sheathed her sword, discarded her shield, and drew out the great-sword. "Ready!"

Eirik, meanwhile, had his left hand open, wreathed in flame, while the right was fingering a small, slender gem that glowed with an inward light. He spoke in a low voice, chanting words long forgotten by many in Skyrim who resided not in Winterhold. He held out his left hand and the fire leaped forth, engulfing Lydia's sword. All the while, she had been slowly walking away from it.

"Now! Strike!" Eirik shouted as the Dwemer centurion was swiftly closing the distance with its slow yet lengthy strides.

With a cry, Lydia smote the centurion's leg. The machine groaned and whined as the steel of its leg was broken by the swift, fiery blow of the great-sword. Lydia pulled out the sword with both hands, then swung again, delivering another powerful blow to the same portion of its left leg. Enough strikes and they just might be able to bring it down to one leg: killing it actually started to appear possible.

Suddenly, Eirik drew out his own sword and ran to Lydia's side. Seeing that this little thing was actually starting to exploit its only weakness - fire - the centurion turned its hammer on her to bash in her head like a gourd. As it came down, Eirik held his sword up with one hand on the blade to hold off the strike from Lydia. The machine's sheer might was much stronger than a single Nord, and Eirik fell to his knees on the cold hard stone floor. He could feel his arms buckling beneath the centurion's emotionless ire.

The centurion lurched forward, and Eirik felt a heavy weight drop into his lap, seemingly crushing his loins. But the centurion was built of much stronger stuff and cunning workmanship to be so easily defeated. Recovering from its blow, it turned back to the two intruders, only to find that the hammerhead had been severed from off its arm. It was now lying in Eirik's lap, courtesy of a well-timed blow from Lydia's sword that severed the head from the hammer. Suddenly, hot, pressured steam was blown in every direction, singeing the hairs on Eirik's left arm as he held it up to shield his face. As luck would have it, Lydia ran to his side and held up her shield in place, to keep the steam from burning their faces.

They rose to their feet as the steam turned to a thin, cooling form of fog that shrouded the room from view. Eirik gripped the gem in his hand and waved it over his great-sword several times, then passed it over Lydia's again. But there was no sight of the centurion. They looked about carefully, swords in hand, eyes seeking to pierce the flickering light of the dying torches and Dwemer lamps above, but still there was no sight of the centurion.

With a shout of surprise, Lydia was thrown back and smote the wall on the far side of the room. Eirik turned and saw the centurion charging out of the fog, gushing steam and all gears grinding away. He guessed that it must have remained perfectly still, waiting for the proper moment to strike, rather than lumber about noisily in search of them. But he had little time to ponder the matter, for it was bringing its ax-arm down upon him. Dropping to one knee, he avoided the swing, then rose to his feet, planting them both firmly on the ground before he swung his great-sword in a mighty slash upon the centurion's left leg. The metal whined in protest, but when he finally pulled it free, he saw that their fiery assaults had done a good deal of damage to the leg. A few more hits, he guessed, and they could bring it down to its knees. Then, maybe, they would be able to defeat it.

"Lydia!" he shouted.

From the far end of the room, a voice groaned in response. The fog was still thick and Eirik could see nothing, so he called out her name again. Then he saw her, hobbling out of the fog with her hands still clutching her sword.

"Attack its leg!" Eirik ordered.

While he circled around behind the centurion, he could see, just barely in the fog, a dark figure come up to the centurion's leg and hack at it. The mechanical giant lurched forward, as its left leg shattered and broke at the knee. It was now kneeling down, offering Eirik a perfect chance to strike. With a running start, he clambered up onto the body of the centurion, raised back his great-sword, and shoved it into the gears and inner workings just at the neck.

A machine is easy to predict. It would only work as long as its gears functioned properly, and if, by chance of a flame-enchanted sword, they happened to be broken, the machine would cease to work. So it was with the centurion, which fell forward with a mighty clang. Lydia just barely managed to roll aside, groaning as she did.

When at last, the only sound in the room was the flickering of the Dwemer lamps above, Eirik and Lydia rose up and inspected the defunct Dwemer centurion. Many of its parts were still good, but they were too heavy to be brought back to the surface on this one trip. But Eirik wasn't interested in Dwemer steel, as he had already stripped the sphere hours ago. Looking around, he made his way to the back of the chamber, and found an ancient lift, leading down into a dark shaft of who knows where. That was not his task yet, and Eirik felt he would rather brave three dragons at once than go into that gloom.

Then, in the flickering light of the lamps, he saw a reflection, a flash of emerald light. He knelt down and saw a short sword lying forsaken at the end of the trail of blood, or maybe the beginning. It was wrought of malachite, a copper-like mineral that, when refined, shone like glass. Such weapons were very rare in Skyrim and quite powerful. As Eirik brushed his fingers over the cold blade, he felt a power emanating from within the blade. Surely, it was a mighty weapon: no wonder, therefore, that Mjoll felt so powerless without it.

"Lydia," Eirik called back.

"Yes, my thane?" she groaned.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I think so," she returned. "But my side where that machine hit me against the wall is hurting."

"I need you to carry something for me," Eirik requested.

"Not again!" she sighed, hanging her head.

"What do you mean 'not again?'" Eirik returned. "You didn't even lift a finger to help me with that Dwemer scrap metal."

"Because I'm not a pack mule, dammit!" Lydia replied emphatically.

"No matter," Eirik continued. "I'm going to see if I can carry away any more from that machine. I don't think I'll be able to carry this sword as well." He picked up the blade of refined malachite, Grimsever as Mjoll had named it. "It's only one thing."

Lydia sighed and grumbled, but took the blade from Eirik's hands. "Fine."

"I mean, if you don't want to..."

"Of course I don't want to!" she began emphatically, then her voice lost enthusiasm as she placed the sword in her belt and added: "But I am your sword thane, and as such, I am _sworn_ to carry your burdens!

* * *

**(AN: Yay, she said the line! There's a new thing for me, ending a chapter on the comedic note rather than a tense cliff-hanger. Hoped you liked it.)**

**(Original title of this chapter was "A Journey in the Dark", a la _Lord of the Rings_, and that was why I kept conflict to a bare minimum. That chapter described the Fellowship going through a dark and dreadful Dwarven ruin, and Tolkien did a fine job with it. As I myself hate Dwemer ruins [i've died more times in them than against blood dragons] and find them dark and dreadful, especially when the Falmer infest them, I tried to evoke a sense of dread in their passage by making everything seem easy, though we definitely know that something is out there, we just don't know what. But we _will_ know in the next chapter, so don't worry. Getting out of Mzinchaleft will be _HELL!_)**

**(Another subplot is being built, and that is the plot of _Dawnguard_. I'll go and do research so I know what I'm doing for that subplot. Also, because I do listen to reviews, I've gone back and edited the parts of this story that violated Elder Scrolls canon the worst. Hope this is better)**


	16. Escape from Mzinchaleft

**(AN: See? I do pay attention to reviews. But thankfully, we've come to the hardest part of this whole escapade into the ruins of the Dwemer...getting out. Oh yes, it's going to be hell)**

**(I've gone back to the last chapter, cut out the part about _Dawnguard_ from the review and fixed up some of the things about the Dwemer.)**

**(One little bitty rant, though. In the two hundred some years between _Oblivion_ and _Skyrim_, every one of the races because markedly thinner and overall better looking [lol, that last bit was just silly])**

**(Now enjoy hell!)**

* * *

**Escape from Mzinchaleft**

Eirik loaded up as much of the Dwemer metal from the fallen centurion as he could carry. Lydia didn't offer to carry any, for she was already carrying Grimsever and was complaining of pain in her side.

"You've taken quite a beating in your time," he said, referring to the scars he had seen on her naked body the night before.

"Yes!" Lydia groaned. "And every one of them hurt. It doesn't make new ones hurt much less."

"Who's the milk-drinker now?" Eirik teased.

"Just forget it," she sighed. "And let's get out of here."

They both agreed to this, and made for the entrance before they realized that their torches had gone out. With a fire-spell, the same one that had saved them from the centurion, their torches were lit again and they held them aloft as they passed through the puzzle room.

"We should try to move swiftly," Eirik said. "These won't last much longer and we don't want to be trapped in here."

"We might also need them when we get out," Lydia added. "It might be nighttime outside."

So they walked swiftly, taking little time to look at their surroundings. Through the puzzle room they went and out into the long corridor that led to the darkest part of Mzinchaleft. As they went, they heard many blasts of steam and, turning around, saw several machines half the height of an elf with a great, revolving sphere instead of feet. Lydia, being unencumbered by any burdens greater than a glass sword, drew out her shield to turn a blow from one of the Dwemer spheres. She swung with her sword, but it clanged as it had against the hull of the mighty centurion.

"Go for the legs!" Eirik shouted. "Sever it from the sphere! Use fire!"

With one hand, he turned about and gave the gift of fire to Lydia's sword. She attacked, severing one of the two 'leg' struts that connected the body to the sphere. It went clean through, for the struts were thin and not as heavily armored as the bodies. But it still lumbered after them, swaying unsteadily on one intact strut and one broke one. She swung again, sending the top-heavy body collapsing clumsily onto its spinning sphere.

At her back, Eirik was tackling two at a time. When he turned to give Lydia the gift of fire, one of them had come up and struck him against the back with its sword-arm. He staggered forward, then swung wide and his sword met the bolt-throwing arm of the right-hand Dwemer sphere. Steel clanged against steel, but the sphere was obviously outmatched by Eirik's strength and his well-forged great-sword. He swung back, both of his feet firmly planted on the floor, and lunged forward, swinging in a wide arch. The first strut, which had already been weakened by his first blow, snapped clean in half, while the other one was broken in half. He pulled his sword out and watched as the sphere's upper half teetered on the edge of falling down. But instead, it leaned towards him, sword thrusting and shooting its bolt at Eirik. It struck in his shoulder.

"Agh!" he shouted. "Gods above!"

Refusing to halt for even a moment to be mobbed by these two Dwemer spheres, he gritted his teeth and ran the half-broken Dwemer sphere through with his great-sword. The other one, however, swung its sword in a downward arc at him. But his steel gauntlet turned the blow, by a fraction. Angered and in the heat of battle, he punched at the steel machine with his fist, but too late realized that it was no beast of flesh and blood. The knuckles of his right hand felt as though they had stricken solid rock. He took a step back, then thrust his sword forward, into its left arm, shattering the bolt-throwing mechanism. Now, if he backed up, the sphere would have to come to him. He began walking backwards, hoping to use his brains to outwit the mindless machine.

It would be useless to try to stab the sphere on which it rolled, for it was fashioned as hard as the hull of the Dwemer centurions. Only the body was susceptible to any damage. If he moved back far enough, it would roll towards him. He backed up, giving space between him and the sphere. It rolled after him, firing another bronze bolt at Eirik, but nothing came out. Its bolt-thrower was broken. With nothing happening, the machine rolled on after Eirik, intent on hacking off the Nord's head with its remaining hand.

But Eirik's wound was aching and he couldn't swing his blade rightly against an enemy of metal, not like this. He needed both hands for his weapon, but he couldn't afford to put it down to enchant it with a fire spell. Instead, he shifted the sword to his right hand, that whose shoulder was unharmed. With his left, he cast his spell upon the blade, coating its naked steel blade with flames, then took it up again with both hands. Quietly he thanked Ysmir that his strength was in his right arm rather than his left. If it had been otherwise, this would not have worked. Leading with his right hand, and letting his aching left hand guide the sword, he raised his great-sword high above his head, then brought it down in a downward strike. The Dwemer sphere slid apart in two pieces, a long diagonal gash along the animunculi's frame, severing the right arm and the head from the body. What was left of the sphere wobbled about helplessly, then fell over as it had been severed from its power supply.

The two of them stood panting heavily in the gathering dark. Their torches lay on the ground, the only source of light in this dark. Lydia, who had only fought one and escaped with the least amount of damage, walked over to Eirik as she picked up her torch.

"My thane! You're wounded!" she exclaimed, noticing the Dwemer bolt in his shoulder.

"It's nothing," Eirik shook his head. "We can't pull it out, we haven't got proper bindings. I'll have to learn to fight with this handicap until we reach the surface."

"But what if those bandits attack?" Lydia asked. "They might still be waiting for us at their camp outside the entrance."

"We've fought bandits before," Eirik sighed. "We can face them, I don't think my Thu'um is affected by my condition."

"Here," Lydia said, handing Eirik his torch. "Let's make haste. Can you walk, my thane?"

"It's a bolt to my shoulder, not my knee," Eirik laughed. "I'll wager a drink at the Bannered Mare that I can reach the exit before you."

"I'll take you up on that, my thane!" Lydia replied, torch held aloft and took off into the deepest darkness.

* * *

They ran as swift as their feet could carry them, though the darkness was now thick about them and they could see little just before their feet. But they heard much more in the dark around them. Shuffling feet and groaning sounds, and a strange clicking that followed on behind. The shuffling was everywhere, all around them: they soon realized that they were in pursuit, perhaps even now walking into a trap. Eirik was right!

Suddenly, they skid to a halt. Before their faces, dangerously close, were crude weapons, made of bone and bound with skin. They turned aside and saw that there were the same weapons in their faces on that side as well. To the left there were weapons as well, but behind them came the ominous clicking, followed by a gurgling noise that made them sick to their stomachs.

With torches held aloft, they turned towards the enemy before them. About nine or so creatures stood or stooped bow-legged before them. They were pale-skinned, with long, leaf-shaped ears and bald heads. Their eyes were pale and sightless and they had flat, nose-less faces. Some of them were leprous and half-dead, and others clad in bony armor, black of color but that did not shine as ebony in the light of the torches. These were Falmer, living, breathing Falmer - if the pitiful existence they had in darkest caverns beneath Skyrim could indeed be called life.

One of the closest Falmer, unarmed and clad in only a ragged loincloth, jumped at Eirik. It tackled him to the ground with the suddenness of its leap and threw his torch from his hand. In the half-lighted gloom, Eirik punched the creature in the side of its head. The sound that came when he hit the Falmer head was sickening, a crunch yet a dull, wet one, as though striking a vase held in a leather sieve. But it was enough to disorient the beast in the darkness, and Eirik rose to his feet, hands reaching for his sword to put an end to this wretch.

But the others had not sat idly by while Eirik was rising to his feet. Lydia was holding her shield in place as three of the Falmer rushed her. Three others had seized Eirik from behind, biting at him with diseased teeth and clawing his flesh with their nails of iron-grip. With their enemy held firmly in their grasp, one of the Falmer crawled up onto the low ceiling of the cave, dribbling spit and drool onto Eirik's face, while another leered close into Eirik's face, his foul breath choking Eirik and its pale, sightless eyes leering at him.

Seeing that his case was desperate, Eirik kicked the nearest Falmer in the groin. It staggered for a moment, but that moment was enough. He wrested one hand free from the grip of one of the Falmer, its hands were greasy and wet. Eirik reached onto one of the slabs of Dwemer steel hanging from his belt, unfastened it and heaved the heavy thing - easily as heavy as his sword - into the Falmer's face. It gave a cry and scurried back. The others started biting and gnawing and clawing at him in retaliation, and the one on the ceiling jumped down on him, pulling them all to the ground.

"I'll kill you if I have to!" Lydia shouted at the Falmer attacking her. Her shield bashed the nearest one, then jabbed his knee with her sword. It collapsed, and she kicked its face in with her steel boot. She saw the peril in which her lord was in, and suddenly rushed to his side, kicking one of the Falmer in the face. She turned to the one on the ground, which Eirik had kicked in the groin, who was now trying to bite at Eirik's throat. She dove her sword into its mouth, and it gave a sickening gurgle as it choked on its own blood.

But that blow was dearly purchased, for the two Falmer Lydia had been fighting at the first jumped her from behind, tackling her to the ground. But she had knocked away one and killed another of the Falmer that were besetting Eirik. He was now free enough to jab one of the Falmer on top of him in the face with his elbow. The one who had been kicked in the face was now coming back, brandishing a bony blade fashioned almost like a scimitar. Eirik saw the blade and rolled aside, then heard a screech as his roll left the second Falmer stabbed through the side from its companion's overzealous stab in the dark. He was now free, though at least three other Falmer were scurrying about them.

He got back to his feet and drew his great-sword. The sword-wielding Falmer turned to him, but it never had a chance. One swift blow clanged against the side of the tunnel, but had successfully hacked off most of the Falmer's head from its neck. But the one he had elbowed in the face was scurrying after him. He leveled his sword parallel with the ground, running the blind creature through the face as it ran towards his enemy. There was one left, but that was scurrying towards Lydia.

She had squirmed out of the grip of the Falmer, being thin and easy to move against larger creatures. A few well-placed punches into their noses and bashes against the ears left one of them disoriented and she was able to escape. Back on her feet, she had her shield up and sword in hand. The disoriented Falmer scurried into the blackness behind them, screeched loudly and was heard no more. The other one swung at Lydia with a crude ax, which battered harmlessly against her shield, though it made her arm shake. With a kick to the face, she sent it reeling, then dived her naked sword into its shoulder at the corner of its neck. It crumpled to the ground, dead. There was now one Falmer left. But Eirik swung his great-sword up and brought it down, hacking off an arm and spraying the rocks with black blood. He swung the blade back up again and brought it down again: another arm lay on the ground in a small pool of its own blood. With another blow, he split the creature's head, dropping it to the ground.

Suddenly, from within the darkness behind them, in the dim and flickering light of the torches, one of which had gone out, they could hear the gurgling and clicking gathering behind them. In the last torch they saw it, moving like a fish yet clad in armor like a dragon, on many legs and with many tiny, pale eyes like a spider. This was a chaurus, a thing more foul than the Falmer that resided in the deep places of the world. On its jowls was black blood and so Eirik and Lydia guessed the fate of the last Falmer warrior. Eirik drew out his great-sword and held it back, ready to thrust the blade into the beast, but it struck out its head, biting his left shoulder with its many-toothed mouth.

Eirik groaned, for it felt as though his wound had been dipped in salt and set to fire at the same time. But crying out did little good. Lydia, near at hand, struck at the thing's long neck, breaking its contact with Eirik's arm. It now scurried after her, and only Eirik's blade now swung at the bare neck of the chaurus, kept it back. This creature, however, was not like the Falmer. It had not lived on the surface, then grew blind through the forced poisoning by its Dwemer brethren. It was born in the darkness, lived in the darkness, and could move without sight quicker and deadlier than any Falmer. It thrust its head back, avoiding the swing of Eirik's blade.

"Run, my lord!" Lydia shouted.

"No!" Eirik replied. "We can...do this!"

"Look!" she cried out.

To Eirik's disgust, he saw figures crawling out of the darkness and filling the dim light of the torch. They were clad in black armor, hissing, crackling and gurgling as well. More chaurus, whose chitinous hide was used by the Falmer for their armor: it shone very little in the light, almost shining no light at all. So many of them, of all sizes, were crawling towards them that the light of the torch flickered, was obscured, and finally died. The two were now plunged into total darkness.

"Run!" Eirik shouted.

"Which way?" Lydia replied. "I can see nothing!"

A gust of fire shot out from his hands, illuminating the whole tunnel and the swarm of chaurus. They turned about and started running, but the fire died down swiftly.

"Do you know any other spells?" Lydia asked, as something jumped at her from out of the dark.

"Wait!" Eirik said. "There was something..."

A blinding white light flashed, sending the chaurus scurrying back and screeching out in fear. The one on Lydia's arm leaped away, but she ran it through with her sword. As their eyes became accustomed to the sudden burst of light, they saw a tiny thing like a will-o-the-wisp bobbing above Eirik's head. It was a spell, a very ancient and useful one, called the 'Candlelight'. It was a light for travelers in dark places and, while brighter and longer lasting for the more experienced mages, could be learned by those with even a rudimentary skill in magic.

By the light of the Candlelight spell, Eirik and Lydia could see the way forward. With swords in hand, they turned away from the chaurus and ran, eager to feel the free, cold air against their faces and feel snow beneath their feet. Behind them, the chaurus bubbled and gurgled after them, following just outside of the rays of the Candlelight.

They turned this way and that, went up a flight of stairs they had originally traversed downwards. All around them, they could hear steam and gears grinding and the rolling of spheres being activated and the clanging of Dwemer spider workers walking after them. They did not want to fight them, for they were weary and bloodied from their battles with the Falmer and their flight from the chaurus. They dared not halt to see if they were still being pursued, for the Dwemer constructs were after them as well. Still a long way to go, the Candlelight faded and they were plunged back into darkness once again.

But as they ran, their luck changed. Before them, they saw a dim light. It was not the light of day, but of the moons upon the land. If both were in the full, as on such nights, the night was bright enough to be traversed without need for torches. That token they took to heart, hoping that they might come upon the sleeping bandits and so make their way safely out of the Pale and back onto the road. Hope, it seemed, had not betrayed them. They pushed against muscles that screamed in protest, shoulders sagging under heavy burdens, as they fought for the exit. Suddenly, they felt the kiss of the wind upon their faces and cool wind in their nostrils. There was good air that way, and it livened their spirits after so long in darkness and foulness.

Unfortunately, their luck changed again. In the darkness of the caves of Mzinchaleft, they could run and shout and pant as loud as they wanted. Yes, they were being pursued, but it mattered not, as long as they got out of the caves. Falmer hated the light after so long in darkness, though why they hated it even Lydia knew not, and the chaurus were never seen on the surface. Nevertheless, they would be safe once they reached the surface, or so they seemed. They were heard as they passed through the heavy bronze gates, and several figures were seen standing up from a nearby fireplace.

"Get 'em, boys!" one of the bandits shouted.

"Can't wait to count out your coins!" the nearest bandit, a Nord bearing a heavy war-hammer, shouted as he ran towards them.

Lydia held her shield in place, but was so weary from the flight from Mzinchaleft that she could not hold the blow and crumbled to the ground. Eirik wrestled the bandit down into the snow and struck him in the face with his fist. But he was no weak assassin, and the blow only jarred him lightly. Eirik struck again and again, and continued striking until the blood from the bandit's face was painted on his hands, but then he felt a heavy thud against his back and was knocked down.

A thin, tall Nord with a dagger-like beard of gold hair and mustache that seemed to twirl at the ends, had struck Eirik in the back with his mace. Throwing it aside, he drew a dagger and drove it into Eirik's back. It penetrated through the steel armor and broke the skin. With a howl of laughter, the bandit began stabbing Eirik's back over and over.

"You fight like an old woman!" the golden-bearded one mocked.

But the fool had made one mistake: he left his mace on the ground. Lydia ran to Eirik's side, picking up the mace and bashing the straw-headed bandit's head on the side. He staggered aside, disoriented. Eirik pushed himself onto his feet painfully, pulling out his sword and turning to the bandit.

"What did you say, coward?" he seethed.

"Fuck you, milk-drinker!" smiled the bandit, a sneering smile still on his face.

Pushing all of his strength into his aching, bleeding arms, Eirik swung his sword and hacked the bandit's head off at the neck. It went sailing into the snow, while the body collapsed, painting the snow where it fell red with blood. Lydia turned her attention to the hammer-wielding bandit, while Eirik stumbled over to the dead bandit and picked up his head. With his other hand, he gingerly picked up the bandit's dagger.

"Not so full of yourself now, are you?" Eirik laughed.

With his dagger in hand, he put out the bandit's blue eyes, and split the mouth open a little wider. It now had two eyeless bloody holes in its face, and its jaw hung slack and useless, barely attached to the rest of its head. He then heaved the head into the midst of the bandit camp below. They cried out in fear, some shouting "Wulf is dead!" and "He was the strongest one! Who could have done this?"

Eirik walked down toward them, weary and haggard as he was, but barely keeping himself alive by his own strength. Only two bandits were left, save for that which was being fought by Lydia behind his back. As he approached the camp-fire around which they were gathered, one of them ran away.

"Who wants some more?" Eirik shouted.

"Don't kill us, please!" wept a Nord, throwing his sword at Eirik's feet and cowering down on his knees. "We didn't mean no harm, we're just trying to earn an honest living."

"By thieving and murdering?" Eirik replied.

"Please, don't kill us," the bandit howled on. "We'll run, we'll run away, leave this place, never come here again." But Eirik could see something twinkling in the bandit's eye. He pulled out Wulf's dagger and threw it into the kneeling bandit's face, then turned about. There stood an Altmeri bandit, dagger in hand, who had been sneaking up on him from behind when he thought it had quit the field. His arms were tired and he had lost much blood. He could not bring up his arms to strike the Altmeri thief, but he could still use his voice.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

The force that struck the bandit at such close range was so great that the Altmer was thrown against a tall pillar like a leaf in the wind. As it struck the pillar, the sound of bones cracking could be heard, then the Altmeri body collapsed into the snow and rose no more.

From the entrance of the ruin, Eirik saw Lydia approach, her enemy either slain or fled. She came to Eirik's side, but put her hand on his shoulder to steady him. They were so tired that they couldn't go any farther this night. They found the bed-rolls of the bandits nestled around the fire-pit and slept in them. They had escaped Mzinchaleft, but only just barely.

* * *

**(AN: This was tough. I had to make a really good escape, and I had an awful day and just learned that I'm about to lose my sole devoted reader/reviewer. [-sigh-] I hope this was good enough.**** I wanted Mzinchaleft to appear very fearful and make their escape quite an achievement. It's been too easy so far [or so some of the reviews have said], so they needed a challenge. After all, Mjoll almost died here, so it needs to be a serious affair.)**


	17. Survival

**(AN: I'd run out of a Dwemer ruin as fast as I could, because I hate them! I may have said this already, but I've fallen in them more than against blood dragons. But even escaping isn't enough, there is more to come just yet.)**

**(I take it the lack of reviews means I've lost my readers. Oh well, I started without any and I shall continue without any.)**

* * *

**Survival**

When morning came, Lydia awoke first. She was sore beyond belief from the flight from Mzinchaleft, but she was alive. She stirred from her bed-roll and turned to Eirik. He was half-awake, and had seen the worst of it. His armor had been beaten and scratched and every place where there was not armor was covered in scratches and claw-marks. The worst of it, though, was the ugly bolt-wound in his neck. The bolt was still lodged in his neck, but the wound was swollen and covered with a blackish liquid that reeked.

Lydia addressed herself to the wound, but there was little hope thereby. She had some skill with tending to wounds, but only the basics that most any warrior needed. Using some cloth from the garments of the dead bandits, she made a binding and, after pulling free the Dwemer bolt, was able to bind his shoulder. Unfortunately, she found that the curatives and cordials in her satchel had all been broken during the flight. The sack's bottom was filled with a mixture of all sorts of potions and whatnot that trying to make anything from it would most likely be suicide, along with plenty of cracked and crushed glass. She emptied it in the snow aside from their camp-site, then turned her attention to Eirik.

"Can you move?" she asked.

"I think so," he replied. "If only we had bought a horse, as you suggested. But there are no carriage drivers in the Pale or Hjaalmarch. The nearest would be Solitude, but that's Imperial territory." He held his peace for a moment.

"What's wrong, my thane?" Lydia asked.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," he dismissed. "It's amazing how something so important became so insignificant in our journeys beneath the earth. I had almost forgotten it."

"So, what's the plan?" asked Lydia.

"We go south," Eirik said. "We should reach the road shortly, and reach Morthal before mid-day, at least."

And so it was that, without breaking their fast, they rose up and went on their way, leaving Mzinchaleft behind them. For Eirik, at least, he knew that, one day, he would come back. He would take Mjoll back here so that, together, they would avenge what had happened in this dark place. But, for now, the secrets within would have to wait. Eirik turned his eyes away from that place and set off their course down the way they must go.

After several hours of walking, Lydia was now in the lead. Eirik was at the rear, staggering on behind. He was proud and refused to call for a rest, at least until they reached Morthal. However, it seemed that he would barely be able to make the whole march. As they made their way south, Eirik saw Lydia turn off the path and start hiking into the land where the snows started to fail.

"Wait," he spoke up. "Where are we going?"

"I'm not completely inconsiderate," Lydia replied. "I know that your hurt needed to be cleaned, but we had no water and the fire burned out before I could use it to melt the snow. There will be water in Hjaalmarch, for thus it was named after the Hjaal River, which flows into the marshes of this land. It might not be clean, but it is the best we can do."

"Yes, that should do," Eirik said. Secretly, he wanted to bathe as well. He, and Lydia, were both covered in the dirt and filth of Mzinchaleft and stank worse than a dunghill.

By and by, they came to the waters of the marshes of Hjaalmarch. They came to the edge of the nearest pool and tested its depth: it was about four feet deep, and therefore would serve their purpose. So they both set aside their weapons and began removing their armor. After the armor was removed, and Lydia was half-way through removing her shirt, she turned back to Eirik.

"Don't blush, my thane," she teased. "You've seen me naked before."

"Come off it," Eirik replied.

The marsh-water was cold as they stepped in, but they went about cleaning themselves almost instantly. With Lydia's help, Eirik washed the black slime from his shoulder, leaving only a reddish scar. As she left to go wash herself, Eirik found that he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering towards her, now washing herself with her back to him. Even that made him want to see her face all the more, though he could not understand why. What they had done two night's ago, she had told him, was purely instructional.

Suddenly, Lydia turned about and waded through the water to Eirik's side, throwing her hand over his mouth and shushing him quiet. Then, she led him over to a side of the pool where there were tall weeds growing and hid thereat. On the other bank of the pool, nearby, several figures clad in red and leather armor appeared. They sat down by the water's edge and began talking among themselves, unaware of someone else's presence.

"...see that caravan come up from the south-east?" one of them said to the other. He was Cyrodilian. "They wanted to speak with the Legate."

"Yeah, the elf and another Nord," another, a Nord, replied. "They said they were from Riften."

"That's Stormcloak territory," the Cyrodilian soldier began, then laughed. "Why ever did those savages leave an elf in a position of importance is beyond me."

"Jarl Laila is different."

"Those thugs in Riften are all alike. They think with their coin purses. Still, I don't see why they couldn't just go to our camp there. Why drag General Tullius into this mess?"

"Rift is Stormcloak territory, like you said," the Nord continued. "We have a hold there, but it's dangerous. From what the Nordic man said, uh, oh, gods, I forgot his name."

"Saerlund."

"That's right! Saerlund, yes! From what he said, Legate Fasendil told him that he should make the journey here, where the General could meet him closer to the safety of Solitude."

"You Nords, always betraying one another!" laughed the Imperial. "First at Markarth, now here. I thought you people believed in honor."

"I'm a loyal son of the Empire," the Nord replied. "Besides, your coin is good and there's no honor to be had fighting on the losing side."

"You really think the Stormcloaks will lose the war?"

"They _have_ to! Because if they don't, the Thalmor will step in to stop them for us, but they won't discriminate between Imperials and Stormcloaks. It would be a massacre."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

Lydia felt suddenly exposed and in danger. They had quite forgotten that an Imperial camp was on the borders of the marsh nearby where they had stopped to wash up. She turned to Eirik, but saw that he was leaning back, as if half asleep.

"My thane, wake up!" she hissed. "Wake up!"

But he did not respond. She tried again and again, but he did not respond. She seized his body, feeling as though it were dead, and dragged him onto shore. Once they were on shore, she ran to her stack of clothes and began throwing hers on, then addressed herself to putting Eirik's pants on, which was not all that easy with him uncooperative and immobile. She kept her sword near at hand, for she feared that they might need it in case those Imperials found them and it came to blows. Suddenly, an idea struck her.

"Help! Help!" she cried out. "Somebody help! Please!"

The sound of steel being drawn was heard, and the two Imperial soldiers came rushing towards their position.

"What is it?" the Cyrodilian shouted.

"My lord! He's wounded!" she said, pointing to Eirik's lying form. "I think he could be dying. We have to find an alchemist, we have to save him!"

"Alright, calm down," the Nord soldier said to Lydia. "Everything is well. Eight willing, your lord and master won't die. Come, Titus, let's carry him back to camp."

"Why the camp?" the Imperial asked. "And shouldn't we just kill them both? Trespassers aren't allowed here."

"We're not rebels!" Lydia replied. "We're from Whiterun!"

"Whiterun!" exclaimed the Nord. "See? They're loyalists. We can't leave them here."

"Fine," the Cyrodilian replied. "But you have to carry them back. I'm going to tell the captain of our guests."

* * *

With the help of the Nord soldier, Lydia carried Eirik back to the Imperial camp. Titus the Cyrodilian, who had gone in first, set the camp at alert for their arrival. The 'guests', including Saerlund, were nowhere to be seen. The camp consisted of many neat, triangular tents and had a large detachment of Imperial soldiers sitting around a camp-fire for warmth. The Nord and Lydia brought Eirik to the fire and shortly, the Imperial captain appeared and examined Eirik.

"I'm not physician," he said, with an Imperial accent unlike the Nords. "We can't cure him here. We need to take him to Morthal. Perhaps Lami at the Thaumaturgist's Hut can cook up some remedy. Titus, Otar!" The two soldiers who had found them stood at attention. "Escort this woman and her lord to Morthal. Return only when they have been adequately taken care of: am I clear?"

"Yes, sir!" they both replied.

So it was that the two Imperial soldiers led Lydia and Eirik from the camp, back around the marshes and to the town of Morthal. Sven the Nord helped Lydia carry Eirik between their shoulders while Titus led the way, refusing to dirty his hands with 'manual labor.' It took about an hour, but the Imperial soldiers finally arrived at Morthal and made their way to the Thaumaturgist's Hut. Titus stepped up and banged on the door with his fist.

"Door's open!" a woman's voice replied.

Titus pushed the door open and led Sven and Lydia as they carried Eirik's body up into the alchemy shop. Titus ordered them to place Eirik on the counter table and had Lami examine him.

"Not another vampire attack!" she lamented. "Oh, I've told them over and over, talk to Falion! He's the expert in these matters."

"It's not a vampire," Lydia replied.

"Oh? Well, good. Maybe I can help," Lami replied. She asked them to remove Eirik's armor, which Sven and Lydia did. Once it was off, Lami examined Eirik's body and found the shoulder.

"Looks like it," she nodded. "Yes, that's chaurus venom." She turned to Lydia. "Didn't you take any curatives with you before you went nosing around in Dwemer ruins?"

"They were all broken," Lydia replied.

"Huh," Lami stated. "Well, it seems misfortune follows you like flies. As it turns out, I haven't got any potions for curing chaurus venom."

"Well, do you know anyone who _does_?" Lydia asked.

"Solitude's closest," Lydia mused aloud. "But they haven't had as many problems with chauri, so they wouldn't have any."

"And why don't you have any, since you're within walking distance to one?" Titus angrily asked.

"Sold out, that's why," Lami retorted. "Sold my last pack to some guy with blond hair, bought a whole bunch of it too. Said he and his fellow adventurers needed it: pah! I didn't believe a word of it, but his coin was good."

"Then what good are you?" Lydia asked angrily.

"Well, just hold up now," Lami replied. "I think there might be a solution. I know Arcadia's Cauldron in Whiterun is fully stocked."

"We could ask the captain to send a runner there," Sven suggested.

"No, no, no!" Lami shouted. "Damn soldiers, you know all about killing but not a whit how to save a life! He doesn't have much long to live. By the Eight, if he had been brought here sooner, maybe you could have sent a runner to Whiterun to retrieve the potions you'll need. As such, I think you might have to take him all the way."

"That's out of our way!" Titus exclaimed. "Out of the question."

"Would you rather him die here in my shop?" Lami retorted.

"A moment, please," Sven said, then led Titus aside.

"Don't you touch me, filthy Nord!" Titus hissed once they were away. "Just because you have a half amount more of wits than your fellow countrymen, doesn't mean you can treat me like you're somehow better..."

"Titus, why are you being so difficult?"

"I didn't join the Imperial Legion to play nurse-maid to stupid Nords who go prying into Dwemer ruins! If he's gotten himself poisoned, that's his fault. Let him die as a warning to dastards and idiots like him."

"But our commission..."

"Was to bring him here, and we've done that!"

"No!" Sven hissed. "The captain specifically said 'Return only when they have been adequately taken care of.' He hasn't been given any care!"

"He told us to escort them to Morthal!"

"We were told not to return unless they had been taken care of!" Sven repeated. "Do you really want to risk punishment because you failed your task?"

Titus grumbled. "Very well. Let it not be said that a Nord followed orders better than a Cyrodilian. Besides, even if we're not commissioned to take this man to Whiterun, it will make the Empire seem better in the eyes of the people of Skyrim." He turned to Lydia and Lami. "When should we leave?"

* * *

**(AN: Norse people bathed, so it's quite alright for these two to wash off the filth from their journey.)**

**(And what do you think, about how the Empire became useful in this chapter? [lol, that was un-called for]. But most of you liked the Empire, so that's a nod in your general direction. Also, I'm gonna ask something here that bugs my brother to no end. In _Oblivion_ the Imperial soldiers wore Medieval-style plate armor, but then two hundred years later in _Skyrim_, they wore leather armor similar to the Roman Empire. I can see from the creator's perspective, that would cause some players [like me] to draw parallels between this and the Christianization of Scandinavia, and I can see from a lore perspective: perhaps, after the war with the Dominion, there was a major dismantling of the Empire's arms [another proviso of the White-Gold Concordant], which were then forced to commence again with the outbreak of the civil war. But my brother refuses to believe either one, saying it's silly/stupid that the Empire's military technology "devolved". What do you think?)**

**(Oh, and please, don't get upset with Titus' racial feelings towards Nords. Yes, there are Nords in the Imperial Legion, but there is also a book [my brothers were quoting copiously from it yesterday and the day before it], written by an Imperial author, that describes them in the most barbaric, savage language. You know, like how Adam of Bremen described the real-life vikings. Plus, the insurrection was of Nordic origin. Therefore, with books from the time of the Oblivion crisis and recent events, it is quite possible that the Imperials - while tolerant of all other races - have some feelings of prejudice against the Nords.)**


	18. Back in Whiterun

**(AN: So, new chapter again. Just going to say that I need a little bit of lore, because, as the description says, this can be read by those who have little knowledge of the Elder Scrolls series because I [am supposed to] put in just enough lore for one to know what's going on and who the players are and such. I won't put too much lore, because I do have a story to tell [that has action, sex and character development], but I hope that the little I do is hopefully close to the Elder Scrolls lore. As for 'mindless constructs', that's just a superficial observation from the perspective of, say, someone fighting a machine that is still running even though it's makers have long since died [artistic license, if you will]. Obviously, once we learn more about the Dwemer, we'll see that their machines are a bit more than meets the eye. Hope that helps clear things up.)**

**(Now comes the part I've dreaded the most. I don't know, maybe I've got Lydia-itis, but I've made her an integral part of the story, I don't want to just write her off completely. She's become rather helpful and a good companion to Eirik, and I'd hate to see that camaraderie end. That also means I've got a bigger burden trying to make Mjoll...likeable, while still talkative [that won't change, lol].)**

* * *

**Back in Whiterun**

There were no horses or horse-drawn carriages in Morthal, so it was decided that Titus and Sven would lead Lydia and Eirik back to Whiterun from Morthal. As per Lami's instructions, they left at once. Time was of the essence, she had told them, and already much of it had been wasted. They had made a litter and carried Eirik in it, and Lydia and Sven carried the litter. He had still not risen from his slumber and Lami feared that if they didn't reach Whiterun in time, he might not ever wake again.

They made haste to leave Morthal and reach the road, but it wouldn't be easy. By foot, it would take a day and a half to reach Whiterun if they halted for the night. If they didn't, it would take less time, but night was when bandits and wolves prowled along the road. They had torches with them, but it would still be dangerous, especially carrying a sick man with them.

So, eager to get as close to Whiterun before night settled in, the Imperial soldiers started off from Morthal immediately. They followed the road, which meant fewer delays than if they tried to cross country off the roads. They spoke very little, save for Sven, who shared with Lydia the goings on in Northern Skyrim, and she of things that went on Whiterun Hold. She wisely kept out any knowledge that Eirik was a sympathizer for the Stormcloaks, for it would likely mean a quick death if that knowledge ever came out. Luckily, Eirik didn't openly wear an amulet of Talos or a shield with the emblem of a bear upon it, the symbol of the Stormcloaks, so it would be easier to hide his allegiance.

They made good time, for by the time the sun was on its way down in the western sky, they had passed over the mountains and saw the plains of Whiterun Hold below. However, there were still the plains to cross. The broad oceans of grass between the mountains and Whiterun would take a march of all morning - from eight to noon - in daylight. Here, it would likely be midnight when they reached the gates of Whiterun. For a moment they paused in their march to take wind and take council. Lydia wrapped Eirik in one of their fur-lined cloaks, as the nights were cold and, despite his Nordic heritage, he was still sick and needed to stay warm.

"So," Sven spoke up. "We've come a good way this day, but should we try to reach Whiterun before daybreak or wait and hope that our luck holds out?"

"I don't believe in luck," Titus replied. "If it were up to me..."

"If you don't believe in luck," Lydia stated. "Why not forge ahead? Better be rid of us sooner rather than later, right?"

Titus grumbled in agreement. "Very well. We move through the night."

"Shh! Listen!" Sven hissed. "Do you hear that?"

All were quiet for a moment, listening for something. At first, they heard a wolf-howl, but it was too distant to be of any concern. It was the other sound, closer at hand, that made them jump: footsteps in the snow, heavy ones as well.

"For Skyrim!" a huge voice roared.

From the hills to their right, they heard a war-cry and saw several large figures running towards them, weapons brandished and roaring as they came. Lydia feared that this would happen, caught between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. For Stormcloaks they were: some of them bore shields with the emblem of the bear, while others were in the blue tabards of the Stormcloaks. Needless to say, she and Eirik were in quite the fix: if she revealed to the Nords that her lord was a Stormcloak sympathizer, even if they chose to believe, their Imperial comrades would turn on them. Of course, there was always the chance that the Imperials wouldn't believe, or think that they had betrayed the Stormcloaks and kill them anyway. The most likely of outcomes would be that they would end up cut down, mistaken for Imperials in the battle. But Lydia was Eirik's huscarl, and while she retained loyalty only to Jarl Balgruuf, she would defend Eirik and all that he owned with her life.

"Stand down!" Sven shouted. "We come in peace!"

"Peace is a sword in the language of the Empire!" one of the Stormcloaks replied.

"You can't reason with these savages," Titus whispered.

But Sven tossed his sword to the ground. "See? We're unarmed. It's dishonor for a Nord to strike down a fellow outside of combat: neither of them would see Sovngarde upon their death, right?"

"He lies!" a second Stormcloak shouted. "Kill him!"

"No, wait! We carry a sick man!" Sven continued. "We're taking him to Whiterun for healing. Will you strike down a wounded man and his guard?"

"Traitor!" a third Stormcloak shouted. "You've betrayed your country and your people by becoming the lapdog of the Empire! Who's to say you're not ferrying weapons in that litter, to supply the Battle-Born clan in Whiterun?"

"See what I mean?" sneered Titus.

"We can't take thirteen soldiers on at once," Lydia whispered. "Not with him in this weakened state."

"Enough talk!" one of the Stormcloaks shouted. "Stand or die, Imperial cowards!"

"Back to your mothers' tits, milk-drinkers!" Titus replied, drawing his sword.

That, of course, was not the right thing to say to an angry Stormcloak, especially from the lips of a Cyrodilian of the Imperial Legion. Sven drew out his sword and Lydia drew out hers. The two Imperial soldiers engaged the first two of the Stormcloaks who rushed at them, while Lydia stood guard at the side of Eirik's litter. Fate seemed to have betrayed them: outnumbered and out-manned, and with Eirik struggling for life, it seemed that Lydia's time as huscarl to the Thane of Whiterun had been short-lived.

Sven had stricken down a large Stormcloak warrior with a war-hammer. He had made a wide swing and the smaller yet more agile Nord ran him through the heart with his short sword. Titus, meanwhile, was standing behind Sven, taunting the other Stormcloaks. Sick of his tongue, one of the Stormcloaks threw a rock at Titus, striking his helmet. In retort, he charged at their lines, only to find himself encircled in a ring of foes. Sven attacked from the side and was able to hack off one Stormcloak's arm. Titus ran a female Stormcloak through the throat with his blade, then drew it out bloody and hacked off the hand of another. An opening was starting to form: the Cyrodilian took it and fled, leaving Sven to deal with the remaining Stormcloaks on his own. Outnumbered, he dropped his sword, but did not sue for surrender. He knew what they would say, and he had his commission to consider as well.

"Run, woman!" he shouted to Lydia. "Take him to Whiterun!"

Lydia began picking Eirik up out of the litter and wrapping one arm around her shoulders, when Sven joined her side, placing Eirik's other arm on his shoulder. Together, they set off as fast as their legs could carry them and down the shortest road that would take them away from the Stormcloaks. It was easy for the most part, for this was downhill into the valley of Whiterun.

"Talos, give me the strength to endure!" Lydia heard Sven muttering.

"You worship Talos?" Lydia asked in surprise. "But I thought the Empire outlawed Talos worship. The White-Gold Concordant and everything."

"Fuck the Thalmor, and their rules, as I say," Sven replied. "They can ban Talos worship publicly, but it won't stop me from worshiping him in my heart."

"A true Nord at heart, I see," Lydia smiled.

"Too bad the rebels don't think so," Sven said, jerking his head behind his back.

They ran as fast as they could, but they were carrying dead weight between them and it was telling on their strength. Behind, they could hear the battle-cries of the Stormcloaks as they charged after them. Their only hope was to cross the plain as fast as they could and reach Whiterun, for the Stormcloaks wouldn't dare go up against the entire city guards and the Companions at once. The nearest Imperial camp was miles to the west, and no help could be hoped to come from there or from Hjaalmarch. They were on their own now.

Onward they ran, until Sven and Lydia both started to stumble. Their limbs cried out for relief, while the Stormcloaks cried out for their heads. Whiterun, it seemed, was still so far away that they might as well lay down and accept their fate. Suddenly, they saw torches in the near distance. This could mean anything, and bandits were possibly the most likely. Had fate betrayed them at last, leaving them to die so close to Whiterun and yet so far?

* * *

Eirik awoke to the familiar sights and smells of Breezehome. He was in his bed, stripped of his armor. Sitting up, he felt that his left arm was still a bit numb. Near the side of his bed, he saw Lydia standing with her hand on the pommel of her sheathed sword. Though she was standing 'at attention', her face was red with tears and she was smiling.

"It's good to see you again, my thane," she said.

"What happened?" Eirik asked.

"You owe me a drink, for one," Lydia replied, sitting down on the bed beside him. "Remember? First one out of Mzinchaleft buys the other a drink? Well, as soon as you're well, you buy me a drink at the Bannered Mare."

Eirik laughed. "I mean what happened we left? I remember killing some bandits, then..."

"You were poisoned," Lydia said. "But, thank the Nine, you survived. We got to Whiterun in time to have Arcadia treat you with her skill of potions. She's quite amazing, that woman."

"I believe it," Eirik said. "Remind me to pay her a visit, I need to thank her."

"Thank Sven as well," Lydia added, without thinking.

"Sven? Who's Sven?"

Lydia then went into a detailed description of what had happened, from their bathing in the pools of Hjaalmarch to the attack by the Stormcloak. Eirik was silent, saying nothing one way or another. When at last she had told how the Whiterun Guard, on the lookout for a pack of bandits that had attacked a caravan of Khajiit, had found them in the plains and brought them back in the dead of night, Eirik laughed.

"Oh, the ways the gods toy with us!" he laughed. "I never thought I'd find myself indebted to an Imperial, nor that my life would be endangered by those who were my brothers in arms."

He said nothing else, for as he looked at the pile of his armor on the floor, he turned back to Lydia.

"You didn't forget it, did you?" he asked. "The sword, the glass one! That was the whole reason we went there in the first place! Lydia, don't tell me you lost it or let the Imperials take it from you!"

Lydia sighed and presented the blade. "Here it is."

Eirik laughed again, marveled at how Lydia had once again proven her worth in defending him and protecting his own. He fell back onto the bed, relieved and still somewhat tired.

"I think you've earned yourself another drink," he replied.

* * *

**(AN: We made it!)**

**(Oh, think Eirik is stubborn? Well, I don't know if I said this before, but he's going to learn a lot of things about the Empire and the Stormcloaks that he didn't know along his path to get Mjoll interested in politics [she has no stance on the war and never really voices an opinion about anything except Riften]. I don't know exactly how this story will end, but it won't end with Ulfric Stormcloak dead.)**

**(Speaking of which, my brothers have won the war with the Empire, and Legate Rikke, a Nord, _does_ secretly worship Talos. So yes, I think it's quite canon for some of the Imperial Nords to be secretly worshiping Talos, despite the bans. As far as how the attack went, the Stormcloaks knew they had them outnumbered, but these were just toying with them, rather than just rushing them head on and slaughtering them all at once.)  
**


	19. Complications

**(AN: Pardon me for sounding like a total a-hole, but as much as I love your reviews and may use your input, dear readers, this is still my story. I'm gonna take a break from writing action scenes in every single chapter because it's starting to get numbing and we need to care more about our characters and what's going on. I won't get rid of all action scenes, there will still be action scenes, but just be patient.)**

**(On a more interesting note, if you've read any of my other fics, you will know that a time-scale is very important to me. I've created one, including a timeline of events, which I will bring to light in this story. If you're interested, I might divulge a bit more of that information later in the story. I've used the very best evidence from the lore as well as the Elder Scrolls calendar.)**

**(Oh, one more thing. It wasn't blood dragons, it was elder dragons who have been killing me in one shot. I know because _Hearthfire_ was released and I got it and while I was building my house [my fief, as it were], an elder dragon attacked and I got killed in one blow. Ugh, damn elder dragons)**

* * *

**Complications**

When Eirik was well again, he took Lydia and Sven to the Bannered Mare and bought them both drinks. It was strange, sharing mead with an Imperial. While they were there, they heard that a band of Stormcloak raiders had been captured by Imperial forces from Hjaalmarch. Most of the people of Whiterun cheered this, but Sven wanted to know why Titus had abandoned him.

He had not long to wait. For while Eirik remained in Breezehome, hiding out in case the Empire discover who he really was, Sven was reunited with his garrison which came riding to Whiterun from Hjaalmarch after routing out the Stormcloaks. Titus had been there and, accordingly, had fled the battle to notify Taurinus Duilis, the Imperial Legate and commander of the Hjaalmarch company, of the incursion of the Stormcloaks. According to Titus, his timely egress had saved many more lives than just one simple Nord.

Once the Imperial camp had moved on, Eirik began making plans to head to the Rift to return Grimsever to Mjoll. For her devoted service and how she had helped rescue him, Eirik decided that Lydia should be given time away from adventuring to rest, relax, eat at her favorite table in Eirik's bedroom and read some of the books he had gathered in his journey. While she protested lightly, he told her that he had to do this by himself, and that she had more than earned her rest for the next few days from her actions. She agreed at last and gave the blade to him.

However, as Eirik departed from Whiterun, he remembered one of two things. Firstly, he remembered that Esbern was still waiting for him somewhere in Riverwood. As there had been no couriers of late, he didn't consider this as much as the second thing. He had come to Riften on a rented horse, and yet had fled from there on foot. He feared to know what had happened to his horse in his absence, but he had no other way of getting there except by foot. In the end, he paid a carriage driver a few gold septims to take him all the way to Riften. If his horse was still there, he would find it and bring it back into his service. If not, well, considering who was at large in Riften, Eirik had little doubt as to where to lay blame for his horse's disappearance.

By nightfall of the day Eirik left Whiterun, the 12th of Heartfire of the two hundred and first year of the Fourth Era, the carriage pulled up to the stables at Riften. Eirik climbed out and approached the stable-boy of about seventeen who was tending the horses of the carriage driver.

"You there," Eirik said.

"Oh!" the young man jumped up in fear. "I thought you were Haelga. What do you want?"

"I stabled my horse at this stable eleven days ago," Eirik said. "I know it's a long time, and I'll pay extra for your trouble..."

"Uh, horse?"

"Yes, a bay stallion," Eirik replied. He then peered over into the stables, but his horse was missing. "Where is he?"

"I'm-I'm sorry," the boy replied, cowering before the tall Nord. "I didn't mean to, I mean, I didn't want to be away from the stables. Please don't kill me!"

"What happened?"

"Well, it's like this," the young lad said, scratching the back of his neck. "The, uh, owner of the Bunkhouse...Haelga, she came over to see me. She said that she needed to talk...business. Look, it's all really embarrassing. We were in the straw in one of the stalls and when I closed up for the night, one of the horses was missing! That must have been seven days ago, the Fifth of Heartfire."

Eirik groaned furiously, and the boy quivered again beneath his simmering fury.

"Please, don't hurt me!" the lad replied. "It's not my fault. This is Riften! People get ripped off on a daily basis. You shouldn't have come here if you didn't want your horse stolen."

The lad had nothing to fear, though, for Eirik did not kill needlessly. He gave the boy a few septims for keeping his horse three days over and then walked into Riften. Unlike his first visit, there were no shake-downs attempted, nor did the Thieves Guild attempt to beset him or threaten him as they had on his first visit. As Eirik walked into town, he had his great-sword drawn. He had not stepped a few feet inward, when one of the city guards walked towards him.

"Just where do you think you're going with that thing?" he asked.

"I'm protecting myself against robbery," Eirik replied.

"You don't have a thing to worry about," the guard replied. "That's what I'm here for. Now put your sword away. A guard could get nervous, a man walking around with his sword drawn!"

"But I've been robbed!" Eirik stated.

"Maybe you should speak to the Jarl about this," the guard said. "Now move along, and don't let me catch you with a weapon drawn again, or it's off to the Riften jail with you."

The guard went on his way, and Eirik put up his weapon, feeling quite frustrated. Just why were the guards being so complacent about thievery? Was it really _that_ common that the guards didn't bother with it anymore? He went on his way, but kept his hands up in case of an attack. He would at least try to put up a fight, not like these city-guards. As the light of the guard's torch disappeared, he saw two figures coming towards him. Guard or no guard, this was Riften and he had been robbed and the guards gave as much care to his complaint as though it had been a sweet roll that had been stolen, rather than a horse. He drew his sword and aimed it at the approaching figures.

"Alright, that's close enough!" he said to the figures. He was surprised when he heard a somewhat surprised, somewhat jovial, reply from a familiar Cyrodilian's voice.

"Don't attack, I surrender!"

"Aerin, that's not a wise thing to say at night in Riften, you know that!"

"Mjoll, look who it is!"

Mjoll walked forward and exclaimed. "By Ysmir, it's Eirik! Well met, friend. What brings you to Riften?"

"Mjoll told me everything," Aerin began, sounding like a school-child awed by great tales of adventure. "The fight in the Ratways, the attack on Vilemyr Inn at night, the dragon at Helgen! By the Eight, trouble follows you like..."

"Halt!" Mjoll shouted.

Both Eirik and Aerin turned about and saw Mjoll running after a dirty-looking old man who reeked of beer and that hideous sickly-sweet smell from the Ratways. She had him in a headlock with her arms, and he was crying out for the guards. Eirik noticed the tattoo on his arm, the circle within the diamond: this was no poor, down-on-his-luck transient, but a pickpocket for the Thieves Guild.

"Let's keep them out of this for now," she said. "Now, give back what was stolen!"

"Fuck you, b*tch!"

Eirik walked over to the thief and punched him in the face.

"Thank you," Mjoll said. "But I don't care for what people say of me. Their words won't matter..." She then tightened her arm around the thief's neck. "Hand it over! You don't want to see me angry!"

The sound of clinking was heard, and Eirik saw his purse fall to the ground. He quickly checked his belt and found that it had been severed. He picked it up off the ground and gave the thief a threatening glare. Mjoll then released the thief and told him to run.

"The Lioness and her cub!" the thief mocked as he ran away. "You got nothin' on me! The Thieves Guild will find you, you're gonna get yours!"

"Is that what they all say?" Eirik asked.

"It's not a wise choice to anger the Thieves Guild," Aerin replied. "Usually they'll do some kind of intimidation. Break into your house, steal something or do some sort of damage just to send a message." He looked about as he approached the houses on the side of the street, removed a key from his belt and opened the door. Mjoll walked in first, then Aerin offered Eirik to come in, and he did.

Inside, it was very crammed. There was a very small living room with only two or so chairs, and a wooden stairway that led to the second story where, Eirik guessed, the bedrooms were located. Aerin and Mjoll sat at the table, while Eirik stood against the wall, and heard what the Cyrodilian said.

"That's the way things are in Riften," he continued. "You make a little money, then the Thieves Guild takes it from you in your sleep. Of course, with the war and all, taxes are high. The Jarl supports the rebellion, so her excuse is that she's raising money for the war effort."

"Excuse?" Eirik asked.

"I've been to court dozens of times," Mjoll said. "I've petitioned Jarl Laila the Law-Giver over and over to address the growing corruption in Riften, but, alas, I fear Maven Black-Briar's influence holds sway even over her. As for the war, there have been messengers from Eastmarch at court many of the times I've been there. She's always given the same excuse to them: our coffers are too empty, trying to lift the people of Riften out of their squalor."

"Isn't that good?" Eirik queried.

"It would be a good enterprise, indeed," Mjoll continued angrily. "If money were actually being spent on the people! I've asked the Jarl about the people, and she gives the same excuse for not helping them also: our coffers are too empty, trying to fund the Stormcloak war effort."

"Some of us," Aerin continued. "Try honest means to stay afloat and keep our money safe, but something always slips through. Most people aren't that determined: they easily drown their sorrows in Black-Briar mead and skooma, many of which are owned or operated by people on the payroll of the Thieves Guild. It's a vicious cycle!"

"But, let us speak of happier matters," Mjoll stated, turning to Eirik. "What brings you back to Riften?"

Eirik said nothing, but removed from his side an object swathed in a black cloth. He placed it on the table, in front of Mjoll, and parted the cloth. Silence flooded the room as Mjoll saw the blade of her youth looking back at her from the black cloth. Aerin smiled, but his smile faded as he saw uncertainty in Mjoll's eyes. She looked at it for a good long time, and then she cleared her throat and dismissed herself. She took Grimsever with her and ascended the stairs, without saying a word to either of them.

"What was that all about?" Eirik asked. "I thought she would have wanted this."

"She does, more than you could have known," Aerin retorted. "I honestly didn't think she would respond in this fashion. I thought she'd be over-joyed with the return of her prized weapon! You should have heard her going on about it back when we first met..."

Eirik nodded, then rose from his seat. Aerin rose up, thinking the Nord was going to leave.

"Please, don't be put off by her response to this gift," he told Eirik. "This is my house and you're welcomed to stay here. Please, it would be better than the inn. Nothing against Talen-Jai and Kee-Rava, they're good people and I would gladly spend my money to help them out. But the Thieves Guild are after you and, let's face it, you're safer here than at the inn, especially after what you said about the break-in."

"Thank you for your offer," Eirik nodded. "But I wanted to speak to Mjoll."

"I don't think you should," Aerin interjected. "What she needs now is time alone."

"I almost died getting that sword for her, and she didn't even thank me!" Eirik said firmly. "I think I deserve an explanation."

Aerin didn't reply, but he held his ground. Eirik took a step forward, but the smaller Cyrodilian held his ground. Eirik was bigger than Aerin and, if need be, he could probably throw him across the room if he wanted to have him out of his way. In spite of this, the brave Cyrodilian held his ground as Eirik stepped forward.

"If she wants to be alone, she wants to be alone!" Aerin insisted. "Just leave her be! Here, I'll find a bedroll for you to sleep in."

There was no response from Eirik, who stared at Aerin for a moment, but made no move. He was pondering just how much he really wanted to know why Mjoll was upset, and if it was worth potentially angering Mjoll by inflicting harm to Aerin. He sighed at last, then stepped back.

"I'll take you up on that offer," he said.

* * *

True to his word, there were no break-ins at Aerin's house all that night, nor were any of the windows broken. Aerin and Mjoll had two bedrooms upstairs which they shared, and Aerin placed a bedroll at the bottom level for Eirik. The night was spent in uncomfortable silence, with Eirik glaring at the fire over which the cooking pot rested until his eyes could hold up no more.

He awoke early, and found the house at peace. The only sound was Aerin snoring in his room upstairs. The voice was far too deep to be Mjoll's, even though her voice was deeper than most women in Skyrim. Out of curiosity, as well as his desire for answers, he crept along the bottom level and slowly made his way up the stairs. The wooden stairs creaked beneath his booted feet, and a few times he heard the snoring stir for a moment, then recommence. He was never good at sneaking - a woodsman never needed to hide - but, as the old saying went, there's always a first time for anything. As he reached the top stair, he heard a voice sniffling quietly from one of the rooms.

It was a strange sound, for he did not believe that Mjoll was all that emotional. Nevertheless, he stood up at the top of the stairs and walked towards the room directly ahead of him, where he heard the sniffling rather than the snoring. Gently pushing the door open, he saw Mjoll sitting on her bed, still fully clad in armor, with Grimsever lying in her lap. For one instant, he felt that he was trespassing and decided to leave. But the door creaked as he was closing it.

"Who's there?" Mjoll asked.

"Shh!" Eirik hissed. "Aerin's asleep."

"Oh, it's you," Mjoll said, noticing who it was and quickly wiping her eyes, smearing the blue stripe on the left side of her face. "I'm sorry about last night. I truly am grateful that you risked your life, and astonished that you could enter Mzinchaleft, retrieve my sword and return to tell the tale."

"You're welcome," Eirik nodded in reply.

"I...I don't know what to say," she began. "I feel invincible again, while at the same time, still...helpless."

"Why?"

Mjoll shook her head. "I don't know you enough to tell you that information," she replied. "Maybe one day...But this, how can I repay this?" She held up Grimsever in her hands.

"Repay?"

"I've rarely met anyone in all of my travels who possessed such valor and bravery equal to your own," Mjoll replied. She then sighed. "I think I have much more to learn." She looked back at Eirik. "If you're willing, I would like to accompany you in your travels. I'm skilled with a blade, thanks to my mother. I carry very few personal effects, but can carry enough food and luggage for two. I would cherish the opportunity to be back on my feet, adventuring across Skyrim. All I ask is that you let me sleep in my own bedroll at nights, no matter how cold the weather gets." Eirik began to speak, but Mjoll held her hand up. "All in good time, Eirik. I cannot tell you everything yet, but in time, if we grow closer, one day I will tell you everything. So, what do you think?"

They were completely unaware that the snoring had stopped. Eirik and Mjoll were examining each other again, though it seemed like the first time. Mjoll was taller than Lydia and had broader shoulders and hips, but she was fit and slender, even covered as she was in heavy iron armor. Her face was different as well: her lips were larger and her eyes, hazel-brown, seemed to turn yellow by which ever way one looked at them in the light. Her hair was golden-brown like Dwemer steel, and shined in like manner. But on her face, he saw a tiny scar on the left side of her face: three vertical claw-marks marred the blue stripe of war-paint on her face. Apart from that, she wore armor and had the look of a warrior. She certainly didn't seem to be someone who would get in the way or slow him down.

Mjoll looked upon Eirik with an equally scrutinizing eye. He was her height, that was good...or was it? He had broad shoulders and a sturdy frame, carved by years of cutting wood replaced by months of cutting off heads. His hands were large, long-fingered and well worn and his arms, alas, she could not see his arms, clad as they were in his steel Nordic armor. She looked up at his face, almost covered in light brown hair and a beard that was still short but was starting to grow in. His eyes were a solid, dark brown, like beer or clay. He had the look of a warrior aright, with strong arms and such. He certainly didn't seem to be someone who would get in the way or slow her down.

Suddenly, they both gave a jump as the door was swung open and a panicking Aerin walked in to Mjoll's room.

"Come...outside!" he breathed. "Now!"

Eirik rose up and followed Aerin outside, with Mjoll taking up the rear, Grimsever in hand. They ran down the stairs and headed out the door. Turning about, they saw something written upon the door of Aerin's house. It was written in a dark pigment, but they couldn't tell whether it was blood or not. This was what it read:

_Enemies of the Thieves Guild, you will be next._

* * *

**(AN: I'm starting something here, and hopefully it will be done well. But so far, what did you think?)**

**(Well, as I'm sick right now [it's not fun, I wish I could be well enough to attend music class, we learn to read music, which is a good thing], I can do lots of updating. So here's the next chapter of this story, and I'll definitely do more on my other fics, so at least you'll profit from my illness [lol])**


	20. Age of Oppression

**(AN: Yay, reviews! I think I can answer all three of your questions. First, my guess would be that they're both enchanted already, and he was using the soul gem to recharge them. Second, even if I've only named two dragons so far, this is Skyrim and dragons pop up almost all the time. However, there was at least _one_ other dragon that you left out: Sahloknir, who was killed during "A Blade in the Dark", which obviously happened already since Eirik was in Riften looking for Esbern at the start of the story. Yes, I know the word wall is in Korvanjund, just be patient, you'll see how I'll bring it about.)**

**(Third, and this is just me. In this story, for a human to use a Thu'um requires a great amount of personal strength and just general willpower. To use that all the time would leave one wearied and exhausted beyond belief. Especially when you call upon a full shout [such as "Fus Ro Dah" rather than just "Fus"], it would leave you weaker than if you used a smaller one. But that's just my explanation.)  
**

**(Um...I can't answer all of your questions, because it would be giving too much away. I kind of like that Grimsever was changed, but that was an "unofficial patch", and I'm going on standard depiction of Grimsever [in "Secrets of the Dwemer", I specifically referred to it as a short sword, like how it is in the unmodified version of the game, which is why it could hang from Eirik's belt]. I could change it, but I kind of like that Mjoll uses two-handed weapons in most combat, and then when an enemy gets too close, she pulls out Grimsever and is just as deadly.)**

* * *

**Age of Oppression**

Several minutes had passed since the threatening message on the door to Aerin's house had been read by its occupants. They were now sitting at a table at the Bee and Barb, discussing how best they would meet this threat.

"We should take this before the Jarl," Eirik suggested. "Even if what you've said is true, this is a threat against the citizens of her jarldom. She wouldn't turn a blind eye to this."

"I think she would," Aerin replied.

"I know she would," Mjoll added. "If the Thieves Guild is involved, she wouldn't make a move to help anyone who's crossed them."

"Why not?" Eirik asked. "She has the duty to protect her people. Surely..."

"You can try if you want," Aerin said. "But it will avail you nothing." He sighed. "If you would take my advice, you should leave Riften until this all sorts itself out. Eventually, the Thieves Guild will move on to other prey, especially if you leave the Rift."

There was silence for a while, none of them saying anything one way or another. At last, Eirik spoke.

"I had hoped to come back and help you with your problems," he said. "But if your life is in danger, I should probably consider leaving. But I want to speak to the Jarl. I want to know for certain the truth of what you've said."

"If you wish it," Mjoll said. "I'll be here if you decide to speak with me before your return."

Eirik nodded, then went over to the bar, where he payed Kee-Rava for their drinks. Once this was done, he pushed the doors open and made his way down the streets of Riften. It would not be hard to find Mistveil Keep, the house of Jarl Laila the Law-Giver, but Eirik began having second-thoughts. Perhaps Mjoll and Aerin knew of what they were speaking: they _had_ lived here longer than he and would know how the city ran more than he did.

He walked up to the gates of Mistveil Keep and spoke to the guards. They told him that it would be busy, as many had come to the jarl for their petitions and he would have to wait his turn. Eirik accepted this and the guards opened the door for him. Inside there was a great table of wood separated in three portions, and in the middle there was a fire-pit. On both sides of the room, there were two lines of people. One line, that on the left, had people in line to meet with the jarl, Laila the Law-Giver, who sat at a chair on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. At her side was a spritely Altmer woman in fine robes, and behind her stood a tall, Nordic man in armor with a sword: obviously, the jarl's huscarl. The other line, on the right side of the hall, had people leaving the jarl's audience chamber, many of them had sour expressions on their faces.

Eirik joined the left-sided line, though he kept a close eye on his gear. Every so often, he would watch the proceedings. Usually they went the same way, with the jarl whispering to her adviser, the Altmer, and then delivering her ruling. Most of this, it seemed, was not to the satisfaction of those about. Suddenly, the doors were opened with a mighty clang and all eyes turned that way. People whispered and stepped back as a familiar Cyrodilian woman with dark hair walked up to the Jarl, ignoring the line and approaching the throne directly.

"Maven, my friend," Jarl Lalia greeted Maven Black-Briar. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm going to be expecting a shipment of moon sugar in three days," Maven said. "I need your signature to secure passage of the shipment."

"Granted," the Jarl said with a smile, then removed the paper from Maven's hand and gave it to the Altmer. The young Altmer poured hot wax from a candle on it, then gave the waxed paper back to the Jarl, who stamped it with her ring and gave it back to Maven Black-Briar, who smiled and bowed, then walked back out of the room. As she was walking out the door, one of the people behind Eirik whispered: "Wretched Black-Briars, they keep Riften's problems afloat and what does the Jarl do about it? She serves her hand in hand!"

"Shh! Quiet!" another behind him whispered. "She has ears among the populace and if word got out..."

Eirik paid no more heed, for he saw that the line was thinning and he would soon be before the Jarl. One by one, he saw people speak before the Jarl, and, one by one, he saw them leaving with disappointment on their faces.

"Step forward," the Altmer said to Eirik, at last. He did as commanded.

"Well met, kinsman," Jarl Laila said to Eirik. "Welcome to Riften. What can I do for you?"

"Twelve days ago," Eirik began. "I arrived first at this fair city and paid for the usage of the stables while I was staying in town. Five days later, my horse was stolen. I've spoken to the guards, but they wouldn't respond."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the Jarl replied. She then looked over to the Altmer at her side, who whispered something in her ear. The Jarl nodded, then turned back to Eirik. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Our guards are too busy keeping the peace, I'm afraid we can't spare any for an investigation that might take weeks, even months. Besides, there's nothing to say that the horse hasn't been killed and eaten yet."

"I paid good money for that horse!" Eirik insisted.

"And we would be happy to reimburse you for your loss," Laila began. "But our money is so tightly stretched these days, there's nothing I can do."

"You certainly signed Black-Briar's writ of permission easily enough!" the man behind Eirik shouted.

"Silence!" one of the guards shouted.

"Peace!" Laila spoke. She then turned back to Eirik. "It would be well to forget about this unfortunate incident and simply move on. I'm sorry. Now, if there isn't anything else..."

"There is, jarl," Eirik said. "It has been said that there are..._other_ concerns on the minds of the leaders of Riften than the welfare of the people."

"How dare you!" the Altmeri shouted.

"Peace, Anuriel," the jarl said to her adviser, then turned back to Eirik. "I assure you, friend, these are only rumors, just like those about the Thieves Guild having a strong presence here. They're vagabonds, riff-raff, nothing our guards can't handle."

"But I've been attacked more than three times while in Riften!" Eirik said. "All the time by people bearing the sign of the Thieves Guild, they've even threatened us!"

"It's all in hand, now," Laila the Law-Giver said. "I have no greater desire than the welfare of my people. If only our coffers were deeper, but as it is, we are fearfully short on funds, due to our support of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

"But..."

"I have nothing further to say," the jarl replied. "I am dedicated to serving the people of this city and living up to my title. The Thieves Guild are nothing to worry about, just vagabonds. There is nothing to worry about. Now if there is nothing else, you may leave."

Eirik left Mistveil Keep, feeling as the others who left with him. As the guards pushed open the doors, he looked back, then shook his head in frustration. He made his way quickly through the streets and came to a halt at the Bee and Barb inn, pushing open the doors and walking over to where Mjoll and Aerin were still seated.

"No luck?" Aerin asked.

"None, at all," Eirik shook his head. He turned to Aerin. "I'm leaving. Wouldn't want to put you in any danger from the Thieves Guild."

"I assure you, it's worth it," he said in return.

"And?" Mjoll spoke up. "What about...?"

"Yes, of course," Eirik nodded. "I would love to have you accompany me on my adventures."

"You mean you're leaving Riften?" Aerin asked in shock.

"Only for a while," Mjoll said. "I'll drop by every now and lend my help to the people of Riften. I might even drop in and say hello." She turned to Eirik. "Let me stop by Aerin's house and get my things. I'll return here when I'm ready."

Eirik nodded, then took his seat and called for a drink from the Argonian Kee-Rava.

* * *

It was mid-day when they finally set out. Mjoll was clad in her usual iron armor, and wore Grimsever at her belt in a sheath, with a heavy iron battle-ax on her back. Eirik wore his usual steel armor with his great-sword at his back. They headed north, for Eirik purposed to make for Windhelm and speak with Ulfric Stormcloak about Laila the Law-Giver. It had been many weeks since he had last been to Windhelm and was eager to be there once again. For a while, though, they walked among the high aspens and poplar trees that dotted the reddish-orange fields of the Rift.

"The trees here are so beautiful!" Mjoll spoke up, gazing up at the tall trees all around them. "Aerin and I used to walk these forests, when the weather permitted."

"Ah," Eirik nodded.

"So," Mjoll continued. "We're going to Windhelm, aye?"

"Yes," Eirik replied.

"I would like to visit Windhelm," she said. "I've never been to Eastmarch before. Could you tell me what it's like?"

"It is the seat of Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the Stormcloak rebellion."

"What is the rebellion concerning?" Mjoll asked. "I'm afraid that I haven't been paying much attention to politics outside of Riften. In fact, I find politics all disgusting and repulsive. It's because of such behavior that the Jarl of Riften is being pulled by the strings of Maven Black-Briar and the Thieves Guild. I don't know why people have ever dedicated their lives to such fruitless, degrading pursuits."

"Because Skyrim is in danger," Eirik began. "Our way of life is threatened by an enemy whose kind have, of old, wanted to kill all Nords and drive us out of Skyrim: the Thalmor. They have used the Empire of Cyrodiil and the White-Gold Concordant to establish a tyranny in Skyrim, where they abduct people from their homes or off the streets in the dead of night for worshiping Talos."

"But isn't Skyrim part of the Empire?" Mjoll asked. "I've been to Cyrodiil many times in my travels, and know a little about the Great War."

"It's infuriating," Eirik replied. "The Empire had the Thalmor at their knees, but rather than driving them back to Summerset, they let the losing side dictate the terms of the White-Gold Concordant, destroying our way of life. Now the Empire have become lap-dogs of the Thalmor, asserting their will and the ban on Talos-worship on the people of Skyrim."

"You seem to know quite a lot," Mjoll replied. "Have you been outside of Skyrim as well?"

"Not for long," Eirik said. "I lived in Falkreath for many a year as a woodsman, then made the choice to venture across Tamriel, when I was captured at the border, but you know that."

"Aye," Mjoll nodded. "Speaking of which, you've never told me the whole story of your adventures."

"I know, I know," Eirik replied. "But we should save that until we're at Candlehearth Inn in Windhelm, a warm fire at our faces and a strong drink in our hands."

"I can hardly wait," Mjoll laughed. "So, what should we talk about? You've been to Whiterun, I remember. Have you done any work for the people, or for the jarl? Not I, if I went there. I've never been a sell-sword, _never_ traded my skills for pay. I've always adventured on my own terms."

"Wait, what?" Eirik interjected. "You've never received compensation?"

"I don't need money to prove that I've done well," Mjoll replied. "My reward and compensation come from gratitude at helping others and the trust that forms from doing good deeds."

"Hasn't that ever made your journey difficult?"

"Not entirely," Mjoll shrugged. "I'm as good with a bow as I am with an ax, so I can hunt for my food. Did you know my father was a hunter? When I was young, I'd journey with him on hunting expeditions into Morrowind. The cliff-racers made for excellent sport. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps as a hunter, but I set my aspirations a bit higher. He never complained." She sighed. "I miss him."

Eirik sighed, thinking back on his time with Lydia. She was his servant, that was true, but she never talked about whatever she wanted, or rambled. Mjoll, while appearing quite competent, was _very_ talkative. So it was that a day long march through the Rift and the marshland of southern Eastmarch was made even longer.

"...and the trees in Valenwood, they're huge! Some of them even walk about, can you imagine?" Mjoll continued on. "Falinesti is the largest of the trees, a mile high by half a mile wide. It's magnificent! And then there was this one time in Elsweyr..."

"Look!" Eirik interrupted, pointing to a pool lying before them in the valley below. Before was a flat area, surrounded by a few pine-trees directly before them, that was free of snow. Eirik had seen these from their north-western border on his way to Kynesgrove, only eighteen days ago. He had no time to stop and admire them, but now, there would definitely be such a chance. There was no water in the inn and the bay was freezing cold, so this offered one of the few chances to bathe in moderately tolerable water.

"I've seen places like that before in Hammerfell," Mjoll exclaimed. "It would be nice to stop by there and rest for a while. Wouldn't you agree?"

Eirik sighed. "Yes, that would be well."

As they pressed through the trees and came upon the pools, they saw a tent of skin lying nearby. Maybe this place was not as abandoned as they had believed. Eirik placed his sword in the ground and began removing his armor.

"Wait," Mjoll interjected. "If we're going to bathe, perhaps we should take it in turns."

"Why?" Eirik asked. "The water should be just as warm for both of us."

"It's not that," Mjoll replied. "It's only that I have a care for modesty and won't have an unmarried man see my naked body, or any man for that."

"Oh, so that's it, then?" Eirik said, as he walked over to the abandoned tent. "You prefer women, do you?"

"I don't prefer anything, except my modesty," Mjoll retorted. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to go in first. I won't take long."

Eirik walked over to one of the trees and placed his back to it as Mjoll began removing her armor outside of his view.

"If you try to look at me, I'll make you regret it," Mjoll replied.

"Gods, you certainly are insistent!" Eirik replied.

"I have good reason to be," Mjoll began. "My travels have placed me in all kinds of danger, with assault by lusty men none the less."

"You haven't been..."

"Never!" Mjoll exclaimed. "I would never let a man have his way with me! I have a weapon on me at all times, and if they get too close for my ax or great-sword to be of any use, I would turn Grimsever on them. That blade has saved my life many times. I remember a cut-purse trying to rob me on the road once. When I drew Grimsever, he started shaking in his boots and fled." She laughed. "I think the poor man soiled his armor!"

Eirik snickered, but did not reply. The sound of splashing water was heard over the next ten minutes or so, broken periodically by Mjoll recounting some story from her past that came to mind. At last, however, the sound of water ended and Mjoll appeared out of the corner of Eirik's eye, fully clad.

"Go ahead," she said. "I'm done."

He then walked over to the clearing and began removing his armor when he heard something or someone making noises in the distance. He tightened his armor and whispered for Mjoll to come with him.

"Come, let's go," he said. "We still have some miles to travel before we reach Windhelm."

"What is it, bandits?" Mjoll asked. "I hope it is bandits, I'd like to introduce their faces to my ax!"

"Listen to you!" Eirik laughed as he drew his sword and moved back to the trees.

"Why not?" she replied, joining him. "If we win through, I'll tell you why bandits are the worst, no better than the Thieves Guild. They have no honor, they'd stab their comrades in the back just for a few gold coins!"

"Shh!"

"Come on!" Mjoll growled eagerly. "I'm itching for a fight!"

"I said 'shh!'" Eirik repeated.

Just then, they heard voices approaching. From their hiding spot in the trees, they could see two or three figures approaching the hot-springs.

"The White take you!" Mjoll shouted as she rose from the hiding spot and charged out at the new-comers, ax raised to start chopping off some limbs. The three figures threw down their weapons and fell down on their knees, begging for mercy. Eirik walked up behind, sheathing his sword.

"Stand down, Mjoll," he said, rolling his eyes. "They're not bandits, they're hunters!"

* * *

It was evening by the time they reached Windhelm. Unfortunately, after the incident at the hot-springs, Mjoll had continued chatting Eirik's ear off about how foolish she felt. She had had these kinds of incidents before and all the time, it made her feel like a new adventurer and not the seasoned traveler she was. She recounted several tales and shared some of the advise she had been given by those she had met in her travels. Lastly, she eagerly stated how she was yearning to face real bandits.

"Is this it?" she asked, looking up at the stone castle that loomed before them.

"Yes, Windhelm," Eirik nodded.

Windhelm was a great castle made of gray stone. The banners were of dark blue fabric, with a dull yellow-gold emblem of a bear emblazoned upon the field. There was snow upon all the walls and towers, but apart from grey and white, there were few other colors to be seen.

"What a dreary place!" Mjoll stated.

"Oh, not dreary!" Eirik replied playfully.

"It's dark, cold and grim," Mjoll replied. "How would you describe it?"

"Austere, virtuous, Nord," Eirik said.

"Where is the wood?" she replied. "There are usually stave buildings of wood in Nordic towns, but there are no such buildings here."

"Except for that one," Eirik pointed to a large building in the middle of the town square, built in the stave fashion. This was Candlehearth Hall, to which they were making. They pushed open the doors and found that the inn within was not much warmer than the cold outside. There was a fire indeed, but it only illuminated the center of the longhouse that was the common room. All the ends were very cold.

Eirik bought the mead, food and beds and was making his way to their table when a Cyrodilian bumped into him.

"Watch it!" Eirik shouted.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, sir," the Cyrodilian replied. "I'm just in such a hurry, there's a new bard here. Some kind of traveling minstrel from the south. The stories they've said about her, music of the gods! I've got to make a record!"

Eirik sighed, then continued on his way to the table. Mjoll was sitting there, looking on as the crowds were gathering around the visiting bard. Eirik got a look at her and was surprised by what he saw. For one so well-traveled, she was young. She had dark hair with a hint of red like a Cyrodilian, yet looked Nordic enough. Perhaps she was of mixed parentage.

Just then, a courier ran into the inn and up to Eirik's table. He dropped a letter and then departed. Eirik placed the tray on the table, and began to read the note as Mjoll started eating.

"It's a letter from the jarl, Ulfric Windhelm," Eirik said. "I've been summoned to appear before him tomorrow morning, at noon."

"It would be good to see him," Mjoll stated. "There are some things I would like to ask him. Like, why has he chosen such a stance against all the people in Skyrim who are not Nords? Or, has he received any _real_ funding from jarl Laila?"

Eirik pocketed the letter, for at that moment, the bard was surrounded by a host of admirers chanting her name, Malukah, while she was asking them if they wanted to hear a song. Tired of hearing the same song at almost all the inns he had been at, Eirik stood up and spoke.

"Play us a song fit for this place," he said. "Sing us 'The Age of Oppression.'"

"You must be a true Stormcloak, friend," Malukah said. She then strummed on her lute then turned to the others. "This song is dedicated to Skyrim's sons and daughters." With a few more strums of the lute, she began to sing in the most beautiful voice Eirik had heard since Mjoll. He and all who listened were entranced by her voice, as though she were a mage rather than a bard.

_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done_

Eirik nudged Mjoll's shoulder, indicating that she should listen along as well. There hadn't been any bards in any of the inns in Riften, which made this her first experience with hearing their material.

_We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own  
With our blood and our steel, we will take back our home_

For a moment, Eirik was at peace. He forgot all about the war, the dragons, or any other care that occupied his mind. There was only this music, a melody from an old Nord drinking song converted for the cause of the rebellion, sung by someone who wasn't even a full Nord. But it had something, a quality to it that made the hairs on Eirik's arm stand up as he listened to it.

_All hail to Ulfric, you are the High King  
In your great honor, we drink and we sing_

He closed his eyes as the next part of the chorus was quickly added.

_We're the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives  
And when Sovngarde beckons, everyone of us dies_

In his ears, this was just as reverent, and rightly so, as any prayer or hymn to the Divines.

_But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean  
Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams_

She played on, which surprised Eirik. Most of the bards, when they played "Age of Aggression", the Imperial version, they would end it there. But apparently there was still more to go. The way she strummed the strings of her lute suddenly began to make a kind of melody. She was then calling for people to sing along. Eirik held up his tankard and, with a dozen other men and women in the inn, sang along:

_All hail to Ulfric, you are the High King  
In your great honor, we drink and we sing  
We're the children of__ Skyrim and we fight all our lives  
And when Sovngarde beckons, everyone of us dies_

Everyone took a drink and shouted with cheer, but when Eirik sat down again as the song began to grow soft once more, Mjoll saw something.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You look like you're..."

"It's nothing," he sighed, wiping his eyes. "I've just remembered why we fight, and what we're fighting for."

"The song, you mean?" she gestured back to young Malukah the Bard, who was being showered with love from the audience. "Yes, it is beautiful, and patriotic." She sighed. "Come, let's finish up here and go to our room."

* * *

**(AN: Mostly just building up Mjoll's character for this chapter, but there will be some intrigue and battle in the next chapter. I'm gonna save the flash-back to the first dragon killed and High Hrothgar for another chapter, so no flash-back for the next chapter [yay!].)**

**(As far as the bard in Candlehearth, yes, that was artistic license on my part. It makes no sense, to me, that a Dunmer bard would sing a pro-Stormcloak song, even though the Stormcloaks have hated the Dunmer. Of course, one could probably argue that, because they're so discriminated, they'd do anything for money to keep themselves afloat. Still, it just doesn't feel right for a Dunmer to sing that song. So what I did was make the girl who did an awesome cover of this song appear as a 'traveling bard' who appears at Candlehearth, a nod to her and her awesomeness.)**

**(Another reason I had Malukah make a cameo in this story was because her rendition of this song moved me when I heard it, just as it did Eirik when he heard it. I'm a musician myself and a big fan of music, and I wanted to capture that essence of beauty and reverence [akin to _Bathory_, I would say] in her version of "Age of Oppression." It was tough, because part of me wanted to have her use magic or some kind of weaker shout [like "Throw Voice"] to give her voice that kind of ethereal, choral effect from her cover. In the end, I decided to have her voice all natural, to show just how moving even a simple performance can be.)**


	21. A Convenient Time

**(AN: Surprisingly enough, I have read the account of the Great War [twice] and it seemed, to me, that the Empire _did_ soundly beat the Altmeri Dominion...and then gave the Thalmor the right to play gestapo/inquisitor throughout their lands, kidnapping anyone who worshiped Talos...from their homes, and in the dead of the night! But that's apparently justified because slavery to fear is much better than an honorable death in battle.)**

**(I can't answer about Mjoll, not yet. Once we get out of Windhelm [which I might do in this chapter, just because you've been so patient so far], I'll give you an explanation [try to stave off a flashback as long as possible, lol])**

**(I've been suffering from more than just sickness lately, but I tried really hard to get a new update for this story out and here it is!)**

* * *

**A Convenient Time**

Eirik the Dragonborn and Mjoll the Lioness spent the night in the Candlehearth Hall, in one of the rooms. As before, they had some trouble with where they would sleep. She wanted to give Eirik the bed and Eirik would not see Mjoll sleep on the floor while he had the bed all to himself. While Eirik had nothing against sharing the bed, she was still adamant about keeping them separate. While she would not say why, Eirik never really pressed the subject. It was stupid to argue over a bed, so in the end, he chose to sleep on the floor.

When morning came again, they got dressed, had an early breakfast, then left Candlehearth to walk the streets of Windhelm on their way to the Palace of Ysgramor, called now the Palace of the Kings. It was magnificent, even by Nordic standards. The tallest building in the castle, it was made of stone, but had wooden roofs in the stave fashion, though their walls were made of cold, hard stone. Past a great gate there was a courtyard, also of stone, with a single fire-pit in the midst of the courtyard near to the outer gate. They paused momentarily by the fire to warm themselves, for Windhelm was in the North, open to the harsh winds of the ultimate north, from whose fury they, unlike the rest of Skyrim, were unprotected by mountains and forests.

Once they were adequately warmed, for the time being, they turned instead towards the great carved doors of the palace and the guards pushed the doors open to allow them entrance. The hall was long, made of stone and, like the rest of the city, cold. There were a few torches upon the walls, but they only gave off light in the expansive room. There was a long table in the middle of the room that led to a stone dais against the wall on the far side of the hall. Upon that dais stood a throne, and on that throne sat a bear of a man, with long hair and beard of similar color to Eirik. He was clad like a jarl and held himself like one. This was Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the Stormcloak rebellion.

"Hail, my lord!" Eirik said, bowing before Ulfric.

"Well met, warrior," Ulfric said. Even his voice was deep and booming, like that of a bear. "When I heard you were back in Windhelm, I summoned you here at once. Since you last left us, there have been no reports from the front about preparations for the attack on Whiterun."

Standing still at Eirik's right-hand side was Mjoll, who had not been introduced. She noticed a pained look on Eirik's face when the jarl mentioned Whiterun.

"I have been busy with other matters, my lord," Eirik replied.

"What could be more important than the liberation of Skyrim, kinsman?" Ulfric asked.

"My lord, if I may be so bold, the threat of the dragons is still very pressing," Eirik stated. "I have delayed the preparations for the siege of Whiterun only insomuch that I have not yet found a convenient time for such pursuits."

"As I well know," Ulfric continued. "However, my patience has its limits. The siege must take place before the end of Sun's Dusk, before the heavy snows of winter set in around the Gap of Whiterun. This means preparations must commence by the end of this month, no later, or we will have to postpone the siege. We cannot let the Empire bolster their own strength through the winter. You, my friend, must make a choice, and soon!"

"Yes, my lord," Eirik bowed again.

"Who is this strong young woman at your side, kinsman?" Ulfric asked, casting his eyes upon the Nordic woman at Eirik's right.

"This is Mjoll, a vassal of the Jarl of Riften," Eirik said. "She is a mighty and peerless warrior."

"Ah, one of Laila's subjects," Ulfric smiled, stroking his beard. "Welcome to Eastmarch. What brings you to Windhelm?"

"I have come seeking help, jarl," Mjoll began. "The city of Riften is beset on all sides: theft and murder assault the people from without and corruption rots the city from within. I ask you to intervene on behalf of the loyal subjects of Riften."

Ulfric stroked his beard pensively for a moment. "Hmm, I'm sure Jarl Laila would have different things to say," he said at last. "Corruption? There are rumors of dubious actions in Riften, but can you prove them? If there were any proof of these rumors, then perhaps..."

"You want proof, my lord?" Eirik spoke up. "Jarl Laila has spoken in my own ears that she would help her people if she had more money, as most of it, she claims, is being used for the war effort. I ask you this: just how much money have you received from the Jarl of Riften?"

Once again, Ulfric paused in thought. He then called for his steward. A Nord in fine clothes approached and bowed before Ulfric.

"Jorleif," Ulfric said. "Tell me, how much have we received from Riften as far as supplying the war effort?"

"None, my lord," Jorleif replied. "The jarl's stewardess told us that the jarl has suspended funding the Stormcloaks as she is currently seeking to support the people of Riften in their faltering conditions."

Ulfric grumbled. "This is a strange tale, to be sure. The Jarl tells me that she is supplying the war effort, yet her stewardess says otherwise. Likely it is the stewardess' fault, damn elves!" He turned back to Eirik and Mjoll. "As long as it does not interfere with your own contributions to the war effort, I want you to investigate this Bosmeri stewardess, Anuriel. Regardless of her personal feelings towards me, Jarl Laila is still loyal to the rebellion and she must do her part."

"But, lord..." Mjoll began, but Ulfric raised his hand in interruption.

"Perhaps this is the corruption of which you seek?" Ulfric asked. He then turned to Eirik. "You may go now, but have a care that you remember where your loyalties truly lie."

"Yes, my lord." Eirik bowed, then turned and made his way out of the cold, stone hall. At his side walked Mjoll, eager to be going someplace warmer.

* * *

They had left Windhelm behind and were on their way west, following the White River that would lead them to the Gap of Whiterun. The only way across the river this far west would be the towers of Valtheim. They had hoped that they would make it out of Eastmarch without incident, and so far they had met few on the snow roads along the northern border of the River. Nevertheless, Mjoll had her ax out and resting on her shoulder as they walked.

"Eirik, may I ask you a question?"

"Anything," he said, fearing that she was about to break into another tale of her many adventures.

"When we were in the palace, before the Jarl," she began. "You seemed agitated, especially when he mentioned Whiterun. What was that for?"

Eirik laughed.

"What's so funny?" she replied.

"You ask me serious questions," he stated. "Yet you won't answer any of mine about you."

"That's different," she said. "The details of my life are private and personal."

"And mine aren't?" he replied with a smirk.

"No, that's not what I meant," she replied. "I only meant that, well, a warrior's first service is to the honor and duty of his lord, and yet you are shirking your duties to Jarl Ulfric. Why is that?"

He sighed. "Because what he asks of me is something I cannot do."

"Why not?"

"Because he wants me to take his ax to Balgruuf in Whiterun," Eirik began. "From what he's told me, it would force Balgruuf to make a decision he has been avoiding for a long time: whether to accept the ax and join the Rebellion, or reject it and declare war on the Stormcloaks. I fear he will reject it, and war will come."

"But are you not desirous to end the Empire's tyranny?" Mjoll asked.

"Aye, with all my heart," Eirik replied. "But not at the expense of honor. Balgruuf is a good man, even if he overlooked certain...things."

"What things?" Mjoll asked again.

"That is another tale for another time," Eirik said. "Nevertheless, Balgruuf is a good and honorable man, he made me Thane of Whiterun. I cannot betray him now. Honor is a great thing to me, Mjoll, but what must one do when honor and duty no longer go hand in hand?"

She did not respond, for just then, three rather ill-kept men appeared on the road before them, just within a bow-shot of the towers of Valtheim. Eirik did not reach for his sword just yet, for he saw, on the top of each tower, two others with arrows fitted into their bows.

"Hail, good travelers!" one of the men said with a smile. "This here's a toll bridge, the Valtheim towers. Gotta pay the toll to get across here."

"Bollocks!" Mjoll growled, hands gripping the shaft of her ax. "I'll wipe that smile off your face, coward!"

Suddenly, two arrows came whizzing down from the towers. The first one skipped off the stones and wept spinning down into the Valtheim Falls. The other, however, found its mark in Mjoll's stomach, just a few inches south of her iron breastplate. She cried out in pain, collapsing to the ground.

But Eirik wouldn't wait another minute. He turned to the bandits, hands held up and a smirk on his face that soon turned to fear.

"Please, please don't kill me!" he begged. "I'll give you all our money, just please don't kill me."

"Ha! Pathetic milk-drinker!" one of the bandits sneered. "Hand it over."

Eirik removed his purse and held it out to them, hand shaking.

"You want it?" he asked, still sounding fearful.

"Hurry up!" one shouted.

"Come on, then!" another ordered.

"Catch!" Eirik smiled, the confidence in his voice as he threw his purse up into the air. A few eyes looked up there, the others, however, were looking at the 'fearful' Nord, now tall and imposing as he roared at them: "_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

Two of them were thrown off the edge of the cliff and into the river below. One hit one of the rocks on the far side of the river's bank and his body bent as it struck it, a loud crack as his back was broken and he fell dead into the river. The other one struck a rock in the river, but it was slippery and he was thrown off it and plummeted off the Valtheim Falls, never to be seen or heard from again.

The other one, a short, broad Nord with a club and shield, had only been knocked off his feet by the unrelenting force of Eirik's Thu'um. But he soon was back again, snarling at Eirik as he beat his club upon his shield. Behind him, however, he could see the archers on towers already fitting arrows into their bows. Once this squat Nord was defeated, he would be stuck fast with arrows. But he was still drained from the last shout, and another one so soon would make him unable to fight the short one before him.

He drew out his great-sword and glared down at the Nord and his club. He shivered in fear, but held his shield up in place. Eirik swung the huge sword, striking the shield: the sheer force sent the little bandit tumbling backwards, almost falling, but he recovered. He swung again, striking the shield once more. This time, the bandit wouldn't wait to be attacked and charged ahead, club raised for a deadly strike. But that was all that Eirik needed. He leveled his sword and thrust it forward, impaling the little Nord and, so strong was he, lifting him up off the ground. As he felt hot blood dripping down his hands, he saw one of the archers had dropped his bow and was running down the towers, while the other one was busy taking aim.

Eirik threw the dead weight of the short bandit down, then picked up his shield and held it in place. Just in time as well, for he could feel a strong thump against it as the bandit's arrow struck the wooden targe. It wouldn't do to hold it up indefinitely, for his sword-slashes had weakened the shield tremendously. He threw the shield aside and saw the bandit reaching for another arrow. He only had one chance now...

"_Tiid!_" he shouted. The endless roar of the falls of Valtheim came to rest. An eagle in the sky ceased its winging towards the Throat of the World to the south, and the bandit on the tower held his bow ready, but no shaft came to meet Eirik. He didn't have much time and had to work fast. He had a bow which he had often used for hunting game, since it seemed dishonorable to shoot at enemies from afar, but here, practicality prevailed. It would take a long time to cross the distance between the towers and where he now stood, and every step closer would make him an easier target for the archer. And, of course, he could not go far for he had to attend to Mjoll, even if it was only so much as a burial. For a moment, he had all the time in the world, and that was all he needed.

He drew an arrow from the quiver of the squat Nord at his feet, drew it back in his bow, took aim and fired. For a moment the arrow was speeding on towards its target, but then it halted in mid-air. Eirik cursed, fearing that he himself might also be stuck like this until the spell wore off and he himself was hit...

_Boom!_ Time restored itself to its natural flow, and the bandit on the tower never had a chance to even shoot. Eirik's arms were big and strong, and he had drawn a mighty shot. It moved at normal speed when time was slowed down, but once it returned to its natural flow, it moved swiftly to run the bandit on the tower through. Even if that hadn't killed him, falling off the tower did.

Suddenly, from out of the door of the nearest tower there appeared three others. One was the second archer, a dagger in his hand. The others were a Breton woman with an ax and the bandit leader, wielding a great-sword like Eirik's. He knew that he was their chief for he was dressed in the heavy steel armor and was the biggest of them. He was the one who came up first, sword a swinging. Eirik swung his sword, and the two heavy blades clashed against each other in mid-air, groaning as the two strong warriors pushed against each other. The bandit chief drew back and swung again, but Eirik was too swift to be caught by this, holding his sword up and blocking the blow.

When they broke off this time, the two held their swords ready, but did not move. They were evenly matched, and both knew what the next move would mean if they made it. All they did now was watch the other, eagerly seeking for a weakness. Suddenly, the bandit kicked dirt up in Eirik's face, but he was quick to hold his sword in place and most of it was blocked. Angry now, Eirik drew his sword back and aimed a horizontal slash at the bandit chief, crumbling him to the ground in one blow. The Breton woman was next, but her ax met Eirik's sword blade, then he pushed it back and with a wide swipe, sent her head tumbling to the ground in a pool of blood. He looked at the last bandit, who dropped his tiny dagger and ran for his life.

But unbeknown to Eirik, his 'one blow' had not stricken down the bandit chief. He was up on his feet and raising his sword to strike off Eirik's head from behind. Suddenly he sent out a cry, and this alerted Eirik. Turning about, sword in hand, he saw the bandit chief, swaying on his feet as he dropped his sword. He then fell face forward and Eirik saw his deliverer, to his supreme surprise and amazement.

There stood Mjoll, an arrow sticking in her belly, but Grimsever was in her hands, the weapon that had torn through the bandit chief's weaker back armor and struck him down. She staggered, then stood firmly on her feet as she sheathed her weapon, then tore the arrow out of her with a loud cry. She panted for a moment, then threw the arrow away. She looked up at Eirik, but saw that he was caught somewhere between amazement and fury.

"What?" she asked. "It was just a flesh wound."

"That should have killed you," he said. "Or left you incapable of moving without great pain."

"I _am_ in pain," she replied. "It'll go away in a little while, though."

"When were you going to tell me _this_, hmm?"

"What?"

"That you're...invincible! Shor's bones, if I had thought you were invincible, I would have taken you to journey with me long ere this!"

"It's a very personal matter," Mjoll replied. "One I had been saving for a convenient time."

"How about now?" Eirik asked. "I know, I think I deserve to know how it happened."

Mjoll sighed. "Do you know why I am called 'the Lioness?'"

"A rude name they gave you in Riften because of your hair color?"

"There are no lions in Skyrim," Mjoll began. "My name came to me during one of my earliest travels. I was in Cyrodiil, mere months after leaving my home. I saw a mountain lion stalking a woman in a forest clearing and slew it. The woman was a witch, but she was thankful that I delivered her from the mountain lioness. In return for saving her, she said she would use her magic to bless me in which ever way I wished. I was young and foolish, I sought only gold and adventure: I asked her for something that would make me the greatest warrior in all the lands. She said that, once I left, I would be able to survive any wound, be it from a sword, ax, arrow, poison or wild animal."

"But you said that you almost died in Mzinchaleft..."

"I am not finished. There was a condition to her magic. She said it would stay with me until it was the appointed time for me to die, or..."

"Or?"

She sighed. "Or if I gave my heart and my maidenhead to any man. That is why I won't share a bed with any man. I know the men in Skyrim are very lusty, and I would rather sleep on the floor than risk coming as close to death as I was in Mzinchaleft. When I lay bleeding in that Dwemer ruin, I felt that it was indeed the chosen time of the gods for me to die, and I despaired. That's why I am eternally grateful to Aerin for saving my life. If not for him, it _would_ have been my end."

Eirik was stunned as he heard this, hanging his head in shame as though he was speaking of something that was not his to know.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have left well enough alone."

"I forgive you," she replied. "You had no way of knowing." She then looked down below her iron armor and smiled. "See? It's already healed. Come now, we have a long journey ahead of us."

"Yes," Eirik grimly said.

"Now," she continued. "Tell me about your adventures. I never quite heard about how you fared against the dragon. Tell me everything."

"Well..."

* * *

**(AN: So there, I got my explanation out and made Mjoll's infamous glitch semi-canon! It was based on the story of the hero of _Bathory_'s album "Blood on Ice", though I tweaked it a little. Yes, I know what you're gonna say, "but what about Mzinchaleft?" Wasn't my explanation enough? Okay, here it goes _again_: she has the magic "until it is time for her to die" under the condition that she not give her heart or maidenhead to anyone. Therefore, she would have believed that Mzinchaleft was her time to die, or that it was and she beat fate. Either way, I still think it works and I wanted to make her story epic and viking metal-like [when appropriate, I have evoked phrases and words from my favorite viking metal albums]. No, it wasn't rape.)**

**(Lol, rage against me if I make the Empire less than the perfect people you all want them to be, but I bet you'd turn the other cheek if I make the Stormcloaks extra evil. Personally, I thought I wasn't hard enough on the Empire as I could/should have been, but the Stormcloaks needed some less than perfect actions. Still, you're not gonna convince me to join the Empire.)**


	22. Dragonborn

**(AN: Flashback time. I'm still here and I'm still writing, so that's good...I think.)**

**(Oh, something I forgot about in the last chapter that I want to ask if anyone is still reading this: what would you think about there being more than one Dragonborn active during this time? I know, I know, the events of _Dragonborn_ do state that another one is active, but I mean more than just those two: is that okay? Would that be something you'd be interested in seeing in this story or no?)**

**(Yay, rev...oh, what?! I have never been more insulted in my life than with that last review! Honestly, I'm trying to make her more than just a battered, weak little "damsel in distress", even evoking the greatness of _Bathory_, and then I get _that?_ In the words of the immortal Graham Chapman: "Right, stop that! It's silly...very silly indeed." And as for the war..."In the end, the main Aldmeri army in Cyrodiil was completely destroyed" after the Battle of the Red Ring, quoted from the book _The Great War_. Completely destroyed: that certainly sounds like a sound victory for the Empire to me.)**

* * *

**Dragonborn**

Nightfall in the hold of Whiterun. A group of the guards were gathered at the west watch-tower, headed by Dunmer Irileth, huscarl of Balgruuf the Greater. Among them was Eirik: in his hands was a great-sword forged for a king of the ancient Nords when the elders were young, found in the barrow at Bleak Falls, now in his hand, its warrior's tale living on through him. Above their heads, the night sky was deathly quiet. It belied the rumor of war that lay about them: the watch-tower had been torn in half, many of the stones laying upon the plains about the tower's base, and some of the fires were still lit.

Irileth began setting the guards up around the base and ruin of the tower to serve as an ambush, in case the dragon should return. Eirik was with her company, for the moment, who were in the base of the tower. While they waited, in the light of their torches, Eirik marveled at the Dunmer woman. She was so unlike the Nords of Skyrim, with a thin frame and a narrow head, yet of similar height to any Nord. The skin he could not see well in the dim light, but he remembered how he saw her when they first met in Dragonsreach: blue-gray it was, with high cheek bones, a heavily accented brow ridge and eyes that swept upward at the outward corners. Even in the dark, her eyes glowed red, reminding him of something he would rather not remember, especially in the twilight. From near at hand, he heard someone muttering.

"Where is it?" one of the guards whispered nervously. "The dragon."

"Is it still here?" another echoed.

"Maybe it's gone," a third added.

"It will certainly return if you don't stop talking!" Irileth ordered.

"Are the legends true?" one asked. "It's said the coming of the dragons will hail the end of days."

"Psh! Superstitious Nord nonsense!" Irileth scorned. "Now keep your heads about you, the lot of you! I won't have any of you bolting on account of your fears. You are soldiers of Whiterun, you _will_ do your duty, is that understood?"

The soldiers grumbled their affirmation, but still some of them were quivering with fear. One of them was cradling an amulet, whispering prayers to one of the Divines. Irileth snorted in derision, but made no move one way or the other.

"What was that for?" Eirik asked.

"Stendarr isn't going to save us from that dragon," she replied. "What will save us will be the strength of our own hand."

"You don't believe in the Divines?"

"What I believe is none of your concern, Nord," the Dunmer stated. She snorted again. "Divines. We have all that we need to defend Whiterun right here and now."

Eirik said nothing, for he was of one mind: keep watch for the dragon. The night air was cold and still, with no sounds other than the breathing of the soldiers. Gently, a breeze began to blow the golden grass of the plains about: most of them thought it was just a cold afternoon breeze come down from the mountains, or the smoke from the still burning fires, but Eirik could hear something else, soft at first, but growing louder with each second.

The beating of heavy wings.

"Look!" one of the guards shouted. "There it is!"

"Talos save us!" another cried out.

All was dark, save for the glory of the fires, and nothing could be seen: but there was much to be heard. The wind was being picked up by the beating of heavy wings, and a mighty roar resounded in the heavens above that made the hair on Eirik's arms stand on end. It reminded him greatly of Helgen. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a gust of fire upon the plain and there it appeared: a dragon, larger than life, clad in scales like a thousand shields, with two wings like the sails of a drekkar, eyes of burning ember, and fangs and claws like the blades of great-swords.

"Run!" one of the guards shouted.

"Fools! Stand and fight it, like men!" roared Irileth, as she drew her sword. "Bows out, shoot it out of the sky."

"But it's too dark!"

"Wait until it breathes, then attack it!"

While they were busy, Eirik was making his way down onto the plains, sword in hand. The dragon flew over once, twice and now three times, breathing fire. Every now and then, an arrow or two would whistle out at the dragon, but always fall shy of its mark. Some of the guards were trying to light their arrows on fire and shoot the dragon that way, but it was still too fast. Eirik was now on the road, sword in hand, looking up at the sky.

"Dragon!" he shouted. "Come down here and face me, if you're not a coward!"

Not exactly the best thing to say to a dragon, but Eirik was feeling brave. He had survived the dragon attack at Helgen and wasn't ready to let more people die: too many had died then, he had seen with his own eyes. But it got the dragon's attention, for the mighty wyrm landed in the road on all fours, its hind-legs and the claws of its wings. Suddenly, one of the guards ran up to Eirik's side.

"This is for Tor!" shouted the guard, drawing his sword and standing at his side, ready to face the dragon.

But the dragon was fast and snaked its head back, as if it were about to strike. Eirik held his sword parallel with the ground: if the dragon was to attack him, it would stick its tongue on his sword.

"_Yol!_" roared the dragon. A gust of fire turned the guard at Eirik's side into a pillar of flame, that flailed about helplessly for a moment or two before collapsing in the middle of the road. The dragon then turned its eyes towards Eirik.

"You do not run away, _joor_," the dragon grumbled at Eirik. "Mmm, _balaan hokoron. Krif krin!_"

Eirik charged, sword in hand, through the haze of smoke and fire from the tower, at the dragon. Suddenly, just as he was within moments of striking the dragon, something grabbed him from the side and knocked him down, just underneath the dragon's throat.

"Are you insane?" Irileth shouted. "Running right for the beast, you're going to get yourself killed!"

"I have to do something!" Eirik replied. "Get off me!"

But Irileth wasn't going to pay him any attention. She drew out her sword and thrust it up at the dragon's neck. It rang, as if it had struck stone, and the blade was thrown back, its point notched. With a swing of its neck, the dragon threw the Dunmer aside. Eirik rose up onto his feet and pulled his great-sword out, held firmly in both hands. The dragon swung back and lunged out at him, knocking him back as its teeth made contact with the sword and neither broke. Now with its prey on its back, the dragon glowered over him, its breath hot and rank.

"None can defeat Mirmulnir," the dragon growled. It inhaled, its breath ragged and slow. "_Thurri du hin sille ko _Sovngarde!"

The dragon sprung back to seize Eirik in its jaws, bringing him to a swift and painful end. But Eirik was mighty, strength built from years as a woodsman. His hands were still free, and while they held not his sword, that was enough. With his bare hands, he seized one tooth of the dragon's mouth on its upper jaw and one on the lower jaw, keeping the mouth from closing about him. But there was one other fear, a very real one against which even Eirik's brute strength could not withstand, especially at this distance. The dragon's breath could still incinerate him, and he had no way of halting it or moving out of the way.

"Fire!" a voice shouted.

The dragon shook as an arrow stuck fast in its wing, and another in its eye. It moved its mouth so violently that it snapped one of its own teeth out of its jaw. The force was so great that Eirik's left arm was almost broken, but he was now free as the dragon lurched its head up. His left hand was covered in black blood, and between his fingers was the tooth of the dragon. He threw it aside and reached for his sword, for now the dragon had turned its attention to the guards of Whiterun and was unleashing a torrent of fire upon the ruins of the tower.

Eirik ran towards the dragon, swinging his great-sword up and swung down upon the dragon's neck. It was caught between the scales, but would not come undone. In fact, as the dragon began thrashing about, Eirik was being pulled with it, barely holding on by the hilt of his sword, not knowing if it would be worse to hold on or to let go and hope for the best. Back and forth and forth and back he was swung, then suddenly, with a loud chink and a growl from the dragon's throat, Eirik was swung free. His sword swung down, hitting something hard but pliable, and the dragon roared again. Then, all of a sudden, Eirik hit the grassy floor of the earth, covered in black blood. He rose up and, in the dim light of the fires, he could see a dragon with one wing limping towards him. Sword in hand, he ran towards the limping dragon, sword in hand, but was picked up out of the sky by the dragon's mouth, held between its jaws. His sword was still in hand, and he had to do something, or else this would soon be his end. The dragon threw him up, then opened its mouth to catch him as he fell down. But Eirik held out his sword and caught one of the few weak points on a dragon's body, the side of its mouth. In a long vertical slash, he carved open the dragon's mouth a little bit wider. It collapsed in pain, the old wyrm, and Eirik tumbled out of the dragon's opened neck, covered in black blood.

"_Dovahkiin_, no!" Mirmulnir the dragon slurred as Eirik rose up to his feet.

He ran forward, sword aimed towards the dragon, then drove it forward and upward. It went up through the roof of the dragon's mouth and into the dragon's head, between its eyes. With a grunt, he drew the sword out, drenched now in the dragon's black blood. He stumbled back, hearing roars of applause and cheer from voices behind him. Turning about, he saw the remainder of the Whiterun guard, including Irileth, shouting and cheering for him. They held torches and beat swords upon shields.

"He did it!" one shouted. "He killed the dragon!"

"Did you see how he slew it?" another said.

"By the gods, they'll tell stories of you for a hundred years!"

But Eirik was barely listening. His mind was swimming, and his body was surging with power, as though he had drank a strong cordial, both cold and warm, that invigorated every single inch of his body. He could hear his breathing, heavy in his own ears, and the pounding of his heart like a drum. Memories flashed inside his head, memories of the big black dragon, the one at Helgen, of a tall man in blue wearing a mask, of ages in the mountains of Skyrim, lost and forgotten, and at last the feeling of lightning, of life returning to his body, as he heard the voice of the black dragon...

"I...I can't believe it!" one of the guards said. He pointed to Eirik. "You! You're the..._Dragonborn._"

"What?" Eirik asked.

"It's in the very oldest tales," the guard continued. "Back when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their powers. That just happened...all that light, the rushing of wind. You absorbed the dragon's power..."

Eirik paused, trying to comprehend the words of the guard. It made sense, especially when he remembered those images he had seen. He placed his hand on his head. "I think you may be right."

"By the gods, it's true!" the guard whispered. "Shout, come! It's said the Dragonborn could shout in the language of the dragons. Go on, do it!"

One of the other guards ran to bring Irileth near, while Eirik thought over what he had just witnessed. He remembered something on the walls of Bleak Falls barrow, the words that glimmered and glowed when his fingers touched them, a word. Now he could see that word in his mind, as if it had always been there, all he had to do was...

"_Fus!_" he shouted. The men nearby were shaken off their feet and their torches flickered.

"Here he is!" the other guard said, dragging Irileth towards him. "You saw it, didn't you? He slew the dragon, he took its soul! The Dragonborn! He has come, just like granddad used to tell me!"

"Quiet!" Irileth scolded, swiping the guard's hand off her shoulder. "It's not safe to say such things." She looked at Eirik, a sneer on her face, then turned back to the other guards. "You'd do well to keep this 'Dragonborn' business to yourselves."

"But there he is, you saw him!" another shouted. "The gods have not forsaken..."

"Damn the gods!" Irileth snapped. "All I saw is what we have here, standing before our eyes: someone who can kill dragons. That's good enough for me." She turned back to Eirik. "I don't give a damn if you're a Dragonborn or not, but I'm glad that you're on our..."

Suddenly, the earth shook. The Throat of the World, the highest mountain in Skyrim, lying to the southeast, was shrouded in clouds. Then a noise like the sound of many waters and a thousand trumpets rolled down from the mountain like lightning and thunder. A voice spoke out from the mountain, speaking the word that Eirik had heard the dragon speak to him.

"_Dovahkiin!_"

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- Seriously, you're like Irileth. You see Eirik kill the dragon and absorb its soul, just as how you see Mjoll take an arrow and survive, and you refuse to believe. _That_ is why bandits will fight the Dragonborn, because they refuse to believe in anything other than gold and sex.)**

**(Yes, one of the images Eirik saw when he absorbed Mirmulnir's soul was...well, I can't say because it's part of _Dragonborn_, which will happen later in the story and I don't want to give away any secrets. Thankfully, there will be no flashback next chapter, so it's on with the main story-line.)**


	23. To Take the Rift

**(AN: I honestly wanted to just give up on this story because of that ridiculously stupid statement, but I've got a bit of inspiration and hopefully will continue.)  
**

**(Lol, "Perhaps I'm the Dragonborn and I just don't know it yet." But no, Mjoll won't be a Dragonborn.)**

* * *

**To Take the Rift**

"You mean the thunder coming from the mountains at midnight on the 19th of Last Seed?" Mjoll asked.

"Yes," Eirik nodded. "It was the voice of the Greybeards."

"The what?"

Eirik looked up at the sky. "Ah, now that's another conversation for another time. We've spent too much time. We'll never reach the Gap of Whiterun by nightfall."

"Why not rest in the towers?" she asked. "It's near at hand, and we can leave at daybreak and reach Whiterun at mid-day."

Eirik sighed. "Very well."

They made their way into the tower on the farthest side of the river, where they found a few bed-rolls in the one of the towers. There was a small fire pit near the bed-rolls, which they kept alive to make a small meal out of what supplies were left over from the bandit camp. Once the night was out, they had their armor off and were preparing for the night.

"Should we let the fire die?" Eirik asked.

"No," Mjoll shook her head. "There are enough bed-rolls for each of us to have one, so we might as well..." She paused as she saw Eirik laughing. "What?"

"Still won't let sleep in the same bed-roll?"

"Of course not," she replied.

"Listen," Eirik said. "If you don't want to, just say so. Don't feed me some outlandish tale of witches and sorcery."

"It's not an outlandish tale!" Mjoll replied in an offended tone. "It is _very_ real. By the Nine, you're sounding like Irileth the Faithless Dunmer huscarl of Balgruuf the Greater."

"It does seem rather far-fetched," Eirik added.

"Is it?" she replied angrily. Before Eirik could make a move, Mjoll had removed Grimsever from its sheath and thrust the blade into her chest.

"What the fuck!" Eirik exclaimed. "Mjoll, are you insane?"

"Shut up..." Mjoll groaned. "And look!"

She pulled the sword out of her stomach, then lifted up her shirt, so that Eirik could see her stomach, a bloody gash glaring out at him. Before his eyes, Eirik saw the hole close up of its own accord, leaving only a reddish line where the sword had pierced her skin and a bloodstain upon her shirt as she covered herself back up.

"This is no trick, no hallucination," Mjoll stated grimly. "This is serious." Suddenly, she kicked Eirik in the groin and then tackled him onto the floor, placing the blade of Grimsever against his neck. "I wasn't raped, and I won't give my invincibility over to anyone. No man will _ever_ master me. Remember that, or I might feel that the Stormcloaks are in need of a new eunuch. Do you understand?"

Eirik said no word, his face set, but he nodded. Mjoll removed herself from off him and then walked over to her bed-roll and went to sleep immediately. As he lay on his own bed-roll, he wondered if this would be his last night traveling with Mjoll. She certainly didn't seem happy by his statement: she was a different woman than Lydia, much less mirthful and jesting.

"I'm sorry," Eirik spoke back. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"I forgive you, for now," Mjoll replied. "But don't ever bring it up again."

"I won't."

"Promise me you won't."

Eirik scoffed. "Shor's bones..."

"Promise, dammit! And stop blaspheming!"

"I promise." Eirik added. "Now, let's get some sleep. We'll be in Whiterun in the morning." They were silent for a moment, seemingly nodding off to sleep. Then Mjoll stirred and spoke up, and Eirik grumbled.

"What will we do once there?" she asked. "Are you going to deliver the axe as Ulfric asked of you?"

"No," Eirik sighed. "I'm following up a lead we had at Morthal, concerning the corruption in Riften, then we'll be..."

"Hjaalmarch?" she asked. "How could something concerning Riften be found all the way in Hjaalmarch?"

"We saw Saerlund, the jarl's son, in an Imperial camp in Hjaalmarch, my huscarl and I," Eirik said. "If he returns to Riften, as I suppose he will, he will be stopping in Whiterun before going the whole way to the Rift. Now go to sleep." Silence again. Divines willing, Mjoll had finally drifted off to sleep.

"I've never been to Whiterun," Mjoll spoke up again. "What is it like?"

"You'll find out in the morning, now go to sleep!"

"Just tell me something," she insisted. "I'm dying to know what it's like. I've heard rumors, it's supposed to be the most Nordic city in all of Skyrim."

Once again, Eirik sighed as he began his depiction. "It's very beautiful. From the distance, it looks as though the roofs are made of gold. It's the only place in Skyrim where true Nord freedom dwells. All the gods are allowed to be worshiped here, even Talos. Still, there are many in Whiterun who support the Empire, Balgruuf among them." He halted, for he heard quiet breathing coming from the one just beyond.

_Thank the gods,_ he sighed, then shut his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

* * *

Eirik was awoken that morning by light pouring in through one of the narrow slits in the tower's wall. Sleeping out here was less than comfortable than sleeping in a straw bed, whether in the Bee and Barb or in Breezehome. Once up, he began strapping on his armor, preparing for the long walk back to Whiterun. Nearby, he saw Mjoll doing the same. Hopefully she would take less time getting ready than she had falling to sleep last night. They had little to eat - only dried meat and week old cheese - but they ate swiftly and set out. It would be a very short time before they arrived in Whiterun, for they could see the golden roofs glimmering in the shine of the rising sun. They said nothing as they went on, following the road westward. The memories of last night stood between them like an impenetrable wall.

At least two hours had passed since they awoke in the towers of Valtheim, and now they were within sight of the stone walls of Whiterun. The guards, who knew Eirik well, greeted him as he approached. All was well, so far, they reported. Nothing had happened since he left, and they made their way up to the gates of the city, which were pushed open by the guards. At his side, Mjoll was gazing up at the city of wood in wonder.

"It's such a beautiful city!" she exclaimed. "Have you ever seen the likes of this place?"

"No," Eirik said. "It is indeed beautiful."

"Can you tell me more about this city?" Mjoll asked.

"There are three burgs in the city," Eirik began, as they walked down the streets. "This one is the Plains District: the Whiterun market is here, along with the shops about here. Everyone lives in the Wind District, which is on the second level. There also is Jorrvaskr..." He pointed to the up-turned _drekkar_ poking its mast from the top of the buildings. "...and the Gildergreen. The Cloud District is the highest district, and there..." He pointed up to the highest building, the stave heights of the great hall. "...is Dragonsreach, where dwells Balgruuf the Greater."

"May we go there?" she asked.

"Aye, one day," Eirik said. "But we have other things to do. I have to go to my house in Breezehome, speak with my huscarl. After that, we'll go to the Bannered Mare in the Plains District. Can always find news at the inn, and if Saerlund came through here, it'll be known at the inn."

They walked on in silence, the sounds of Whiterun on a busy mid-day the only sounds about them. Eirik led the way to the house of Breezehome, where he removed his key and opened the door. Inside, there was a cozy fire keeping the place warm, and he stood back to allow Mjoll entrance into his house.

"Welcome to Breezehome," he said. "This is my house in Whiterun, given to me by Balgruuf as a boon for saving the hold from the dragon. You are welcome to stay here as well."

"Thank you," Mjoll replied with a smile as she gazed upon the insides.

From the second story, the sound of footsteps was heard and Eirik saw Lydia making her way down the stairs.

"Well met, my thane," she greeted. "It's good to see you've returned safely."

"Ah, Lydia!" he returned. "Yes, I have returned, and I've brought back a friend." He turned to Mjoll. "This is my huscarl, Lydia. Lydia, this is Mjoll the Lioness, a resident of Riften and former adventurer."

The two were silent, as Eirik stood at the side, examining the two in the silence. Lydia was thin-framed and a few inches shorter than Eirik, with raven hair and an overall grim expression. She was small, yet surprisingly strong. On the other hand there stood Mjoll, tall, broad-shouldered and whose thighs were somewhat wider than Lydia's, though not so much that it marred her fighting skill: an adventurer could not afford to be out of shape, and Mjoll was anything but out of shape. She had long, dark golden hair and fuller lips: her face had the stripe of blue war-paint with three tiny scratches beneath her left eye. They were both Nords, both equally capable warriors, and good with a weapon.

The silence continued, until Eirik wished that one of them would speak. But he saw that they were examining each other just as well as he had examined them: brown eyes against amber. Lydia clicked her tongue while Mjoll looked at the young huscarl up and down.

"_This_ is the huscarl you've shared a bed with on cold nights?" Mjoll asked at last.

"Strictly for warmth," Lydia rolled her eyes. "Gods above, there's no need to brag about it."

"I wasn't bragging," Eirik returned. "She...oh, never mind. Let's just drop it, okay?"

"As you wish," Lydia sighed. She then walked over to the two chairs placed around the hearth and sat down in one, reaching for her favorite tankard. "How long will you be here, my thane?"

"At least for one night," Eirik replied. "Then we'll be going to Riverwood."

"Wait, Riverwood?" Mjoll asked. "We won't be going back to Riften?"

"I want to know if Esbern is safe before we continue this little detour," Eirik said. "It would be awful if we spent all that time being pursued by the Thalmor and hiding in the mountains only to lose the last of the Blades." He turned back to Lydia. "Has there been any news from north, south or west?"

"Nothing so far," Lydia began. "Travelers are few and far between, what with the bandits and now the added threat of dragons. About a day or two after you left, the Imperial Legate stopped in at the inn. He's been staying there for a while, no one sees him out during the day. Then yesterday, a cohort came down from Morthal, leading some rich bastards with them. I heard the Battle-Born clan is hitting the legate and the newcomer up for information about the Empire's movements."

"You seem to know much," Mjoll stated.

"I had some help," she said. "That Redguard girl, Braith."

"The one who's always trying to pick a fight with everyone?" Eirik laughed. "You got her as an informant?"

"She likes the Battle-Born boy Lars," Lydia continued. "She had access to the nearest source, and she can be _quite_ persuasive. It certainly seemed like a wise choice."

"You've done well," Eirik said. "Remind me to give you thirty percent of the booty from my next adventure into a barrow." He then turned to Mjoll. "Well, we should head down over to the Bannered Mare while there are still things to be said."

"Aye." Mjoll nodded.

"Lydia?"

"Hmm?"

"Mind the house until I return," Eirik ordered. "You know the rules, right? I shan't see you until late, so help yourself to the pantry."

"Thank you, my thane." Lydia replied.

"We shall see you anon," Eirik departed, then turned to open the door.

"Good luck, my thane," Lydia bade in farewell. "And forget not your promise."

"It was nice meeting you, huscarl," Mjoll said. Lydia did not reply to her farewell.

* * *

Once they were out, Lydia shut fast the doors of Breezehome, then Eirik led Mjoll up the steady incline towards the market-place that was the center of the Plains District. It was dark and all the stalls were empty. The most noise was coming from the Bannered Mare, the tavern at the far end of the street. Eirik and Mjoll stepped into the wide common room and paid Hulda a few septims for drinks. They took a seat near the end of the common room and watched those about. For a while, there were only the usual patrons about, with Mikael the bard singing the old favorite "Ragnar the Red" in one corner, while Uthgerd regaling a young guard about how she had wrestled a bear once.

"There he is!" Mjoll whispered, pointing across the top of her cup.

Eirik turned about and saw Saerlund, sitting one table down. Looking about, he saw no one else around him. This was odd, for it seemed that someone so important would at least bring his guards along with him. He was dressed in the garb of a jarl's son, and was drinking quietly by himself. But they had no time to ponder this, for the doors of the inn were thrust open and everyone halted: Uthgerd paused in her story, a group of the city guards stopped their song right in the midst of 'Now I think it's high time that you...', and Mikael stopped playing.

At the entrance, there appeared a tall Nord with fair skin, blond hair and the air of one who owned everything in his path. Behind him walked an older man with dark skin and dark hair, and several Imperial soldiers. They walked through the bar, eying those seated about them. They passed by the seat where Mjoll and Eirik sat, and the blond shoved Eirik out of his seat and onto the floor.

"You're in my seat, sheep's cunt," he sneered.

The soldiers took their seat at Eirik's table, forcing them to leave, and eating and drinking their food and drink before demanding more from Hulda. Eirik and Mjoll took a seat two tables down and watched as Saerlund joined them.

"Who is that rude man?" Mjoll asked.

"Idolaf of clan Battle-Born" Eirik replied. "They're the biggest family of race traitors in Skyrim. They're Nords, but they support the Empire like loyal dogs."

"Who's the older man?"

"His father, Olfrid," Eirik added. "He's the head of the clan, mostly an arrogant bastard who's got his head stuck up his own ass, he believes the Battle-Born are the best thing to happen to Skyrim since the coming of the Empire. Idolaf is the firebrand, the one wants to see the Imperial banner flying from the staves of Dragonsreach in his lifetime and wants to make it happen."

As they were talking, Saerlund began speaking with them and the Imperial guards. Most of what was said initially was just talking about the trip Saerlund had underwent, which was filled with the spoiled jarl's son whining about how the carriage ride was so bumpy and he was always afraid of being attacked by 'barbarous Stormcloak savages' along the way. He also mentioned the events of the Ninth of Heartfire, when some of the guards were distracted on a mission that he described as an inconvenience. For him, it didn't matter that some dumb brute had been poisoned by a chaurus, he wanted to return to Riften then and now, not a day later. This annoyed Eirik greatly, for it coincided with what Lydia had spoken and it made him disdain Saerlund. Then their conversation turned towards Riften.

"How long will it take for the Empire to make a move in favor of the people of Riften?" Saerlund asked.

"I've spoken with that Imperial Legate," Idolaf said. "He's a good man, mysterious and such, but he's a Cyrodilian and understands the truth about this war. He'll gladly go undercover to Riften to...get things moving. But it would take more than one man to overthrow the jarl of Riften, no matter how strong the Legate claims to be!"

"That was the purpose of my mission to Hjaalmarch," Saerlund said. "I tried to get assistance from Solitude, but they've told me that Whiterun is still contested territory. Until it falls under Imperial control, they cannot hope to bring a force across the Gap of Whiterun into Riften."

"Why can't they just bring up a force through Falkreath or from Cyrodiil itself?" Idolaf asked.

"The mountains east of Helgen are too dangerous for an army to cross," Olfrid said. "And it would take weeks to get a message through to the Imperial City."

"I could have it arranged to take less time," Saerlund stated. "Maven Black-Briar, head of the Black-Briar meadery in Riften. She knows people everywhere: Imperial City, Thieves Guild, Dark Brotherhood. One word from her and an Imperial army could be in Riften in less than three days."

"I know people here in Whiterun who won't fall for any of Ulfric's bullshit," Idolaf stated. "Give me three days, and I'll have another army ready to attack from the north."

"You realize this might actually be pointless?" Olfrid asked. "From what I've heard of this Maven Black-Briar, she owns everyone and everything in Riften. Paying her off won't be easy, her price won't be low. But paying her off would be most effective, since she could have the guards throw down their arms and hand Laila over to us."

"Riften is close to Windhelm," Saerlund replied. "Once word reaches Ulfric that we've captured Riften, practically knocking at his door-step, he'll organize his mob of thugs to come down upon us. An army is what we need, to show that rabble that the Empire means business, that we're here to claim this land in the name of the Empire!" He held his tankard aloft.

"For the Empire!" Idolaf proudly proclaimed, holding his tankard up as well. His father did likewise and they clashed together, then drained their mugs. Once his was empty, he threw the tankard across the room, hitting Mikael in the head. "Hey, milk-drinker! Why don't you stop wanking to the local b*tches and play us our song?"

Eirik rolled his eyes and quietly led Mjoll out of the inn, not in the mood for any of Idolaf's arrogance, or for hearing the blasphemous 'Age of Aggression.' They passed out of the doors of the inn just as the first chords of the song started to play.

"I can't believe it!" Mjoll seethed, once they were outside.

"I know," Eirik sighed. "That Battle-Born bastard is getting more brazen with each day."

"I can't believe the Empire would think of joining hands with Maven Black-Briar!" she exclaimed. "Don't they know what she represents?"

"What's more," Eirik added. "I heard it from her own mouth: if the war wins, it won't change anything for the people of Riften. She's so secure in her operation that she will use the Empire just as she's used Jarl Laila."

"Is this what the Empire has come to?" she asked. "Consorting with the corrupt!" She sighed. "We need to get back to Riften and tell the Jarl of this treachery!"

"Aye," Eirik nodded. "Once we're done in Riverwood, we'll return to Riften."

* * *

**(AN: Hmm, I'm having a really hard time visualizing Mjoll in my head. I know what Eirik looks like, and Lydia is based off of Lauren McFall from the parody video "To Lydia with Love", but I have no visual reference for Mjoll.)**

**(The Empire wants Riften, so what? That's a strategic move, especially if they want to strike at Windhelm. Of course they're gonna try to take it. Yes, I think Idolaf is a douche-bag, even if he supports the Empire of Cyrodiil. But who is the Legate, any guesses?)**


	24. Riverwood

**(AN: I actually wrote this into my time-line, just to give you some action sequences for being so patient in waiting for them.)**

**(The Battle-Born who said that everyone in Skyrim is "obsessed with death" is Jon, who sits outside of Belethor's General Store. Idolaf is the one who's always wearing Imperial armor. I wonder exactly what rules Balgruuf imposes that makes Whiterun a safe haven for both sides. I mean, if it would be suspicious for them to move into Riverwood to defend it, then wouldn't Idolaf's charge to Adrianne to make weapons for the Empire be even more of a provocation for war, if news ever reaches Windhelm?)**

* * *

**Riverwood**

When they got back to Breezehome, Lydia was awake, sitting in her favorite chair, drinking from her favorite tankard. They had a meal of venison and cabbage stew, and talked about what went on at the Bannered Mare. Lydia listened intently, though often cast scathing glances at Mjoll over the top of her tankard.

"This doesn't sound good," she said at last. "If you want my advice, we should return to Riften and bring this to light. Perhaps the threat of an attack might put some pressure on the Jarl."

"I was just about to suggest that," Mjoll said through clenched teeth.

Eirik sighed. "Very well. Let's all get some sleep. We've got a long march ahead of us."

"Why not buy a horse? It will be faster."

"Because we are going to Riverwood first," Mjoll stated. "It would be foolish to walk a horse through the mountains from Riverwood into the western Rift."

This back and forth bickering went on for a short while, until Eirik intervened and said that if they didn't stop talking and get to sleep, they would be here until morning. Of course, this hardly solved matters. There were only two beds in Breezehome, a single bed in the upper level east room, and the master bed that was made for two. Typically, Mjoll refused to share Eirik's bed, but wouldn't accept Lydia's offer to use her own bed. The huscarl said that she didn't mind falling asleep in her favorite chair, but Mjoll would have none of it. She was the guest and she would sleep on the floor. Frustrated, Eirik gave his bed to her freely, opting instead to stay up and read.

Mjoll went off to bed, while Eirik and Lydia stayed up for most of the night, sitting around the fire. She continued her drinking, while Eirik read the first volume of the _Biography of Barenziah_ for the third time. It ended in Riften, just as their trail would after the detour into Riverwood.

"How much can you drink, Lydia?" Eirik asked.

"Hmm?"

"Well, you never seem to get drunk," he explained. "Yet I always see you drinking."

"I take it slow, so the drink doesn't go to my head," she said, taking another sip.

"Ah, I see," he sighed, rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes. "Make sure you tend the house while we're away."

Lydia sighed. "As you wish."

"What's that for?"

"My thane, if I may speak plainly," she began. "I had thought that, after returning with this...friend of yours, I would go with you on your next adventure. It would be nice to get out of Whiterun for a day or two. Besides..."

"What?"

"It's Mjoll," she added. "She's...ugh, I don't know, an annoyance? She always wants to talk, all the damn time! It's like every word someone says, she _has_ to have input! And it's never helpful. Gods above, it's like she just wants to talk about her adventures all the time!"

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"This is no time for jokes, thane!" Lydia replied. She sighed again. "I miss the days when it was just us, hitting the open road together, swords in hand, fighting against bandits, draugr, trolls, Dwemer constructs, dragons."

Eirik laughed. "You never helped me with those dragons! You always stood in the back, beating your shield, shouting 'Slay it, my thane! Slay the dragon!'"

"I was trying to distract it, so _you_ could slay it easily!" Lydia replied. "And I don't like the way she spoke about us sharing a bed-roll together. It almost sounds like she suspects something else." Eirik raised his eyebrows, and Lydia scowled at him. "What happened in Hjaalmarch was the command of the Nine, and the only ones who will ever know about it are you, me and Dibella. If you dare breathe a word of that evening to anyone, I'll relieve you of your manhood, then leave your service and run so far away, no one will never find me."

Eirik laughed uneasily. "You wouldn't dare."

"I'm very skilled at getting myself lost when I wish not to be found," Lydia stated. "Still, the way she mentioned me as the huscarl who shared your bed-roll, it sounded like I was always sleeping with you, doing wanton daedric debauchery."

"I guess I'll have to set her straight, then."

"See that you do," she said. "And don't rule out my threat, either. We Nordic women aren't like those frail, little Cyrodiil women."

He laughed again. "Still, I can think of no one better to keep Breezehome until I return. Who knows, if you finally purchase a horse, maybe we can lock up Breezehome and you'll follow on after us."

"You know a huscarl never fights from horse-back, my thane," Lydia replied.

"But it means we have to go on foot all the time!"

"That's what makes the adventure all the more enjoyable," she laughed. "You miss all the little things if you just ride from place to place."

"What if haste is called for?"

"Run fast?" Lydia replied, arcing one eyebrow but displaying no other expression.

"Oh, Lydia, you are exasperating!" Eirik replied. "And I love you for it." He slapped her shoulder. "I will see you upon my return, then you shall go with me wherever you will, from the Red Mountain to the forests of Valenwood, Elsweyr and beyond."

"That's what I like hearing," she said. "I'll keep my ears open and report any news that passes through Whiterun while you're away."

"Good," Eirik yawned. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep."

"Why not use my bed?" Lydia asked. "It's not like you haven't shared _that_ before."

"I thought that was to be secret."

"You're my thane, and what's mine is yours," she stated. "You are more than welcome to use my bed if she needs use of yours. Although..."

"Yes?"

"If you're intent on marrying her, or at least fucking her, how do you intend to do that if she won't let you sleep in the same bed?"

"I trust that she'll let me in when she's ready."

"She sounded very insistent when she mentioned sleeping by herself," Lydia commented. "Do you think she's..."

But Eirik did not respond, for he had fallen dead asleep in his chair. Lydia sighed, then continued sipping from her tankard. A few hours more, perhaps, and then she would be about, preparing things for him for the next journey. It would not be a long trip, from here to Riverwood, but then the march over the mountains to the Rift would be the most difficult part, and that would require more supplies.

* * *

It was already daylight when Eirik was awoken by Mjoll. The gear was prepared in the night, compliments of Lydia, and they were ready to begin the morning's walk to Riverwood. Lydia reported that the morning was beautiful, perfect day for a walk. He rose up, got his armor and sword, and then took Mjoll with him and left Breezehome, biding farewell to Lydia as they made their way down the street toward the gates.

The road to Riverwood would be more or less uneventful, as the threat of dragons had driven out most of the bandits from this area: at least those who had seen the dragon flying away from Helgen. Those who hadn't had died in Bleak Falls barrow when Eirik first made his voyage thither. The snowy head of the mountains reared up on either side, sun glistening from their whitened peaks. Mjoll looked quite at home as she walked at Eirik's side, breathing in deeply.

"You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself," Eirik stated.

"I've really missed traveling like this!" she exclaimed. "Walking the breadth of Skyrim has _always_ filled my heart with excitement. There's so much that one could miss by horse or cart. I truly pity those outsiders who come to this place by carriage, hiding themselves from the beauty of this land. You know, people say Skyrim is one of the most dangerous places in Tamriel. I think they're wrong: it's magnificent, and I'm proud to call it home."

"You sound like Lydia," Eirik laughed, but his laughter faded when he saw the look on Mjoll's face.

"Your huscarl doesn't seem to like me," Mjoll said.

"It's nothing personal," he dismissed.

"It's mutual," Mjoll said. "Why didn't you tell me your huscarl was a young woman, an attractive young woman, one with whom you've shared your bed-roll?"

"It was on cold nights, strictly for warmth!"

"But you're a man!"

"And?"

"Don't play stupid with me! I know what men want! You mean to tell me that you've never taken advantage of your servant?"

Eirik paused for a moment, wondering if he should break his promise to Lydia and tell Mjoll the truth. One part of him wanted to, for he felt that he could trust Mjoll with anything, for trust was what she wanted. Another part, however, had seen jealous women before, though not in his own context, and feared what might happen if she knew, especially if _she_ knew.

"No, I haven't," he said at last.

"You promise?"

"I swear."

Mjoll sighed. "I'm sorry I brought it up. It's just that I heard how she spoke to me, how she looked at me, and it was not with kindness."

"She's sworn to protect me with her life," Eirik said. "If anything, she's defensive about new people. Just give her some time and she'll grow to trust you."

"I wish I had your confidence," Mjoll said.

The rest of the walk was just as uneventful, with Mjoll talking about the time she had helped a Breton family in High Rock. Eventually, they arrived in Riverwood by the time she was starting up her second story. It didn't take long to find the Sleeping Giant Inn, the only inn in Riverwood and one of the largest buildings in town that was not the mill. Eirik pushed open the doors and let Mjoll enter first. The inn was dark and smoky, and there were very few patrons within. It was the middle of the day, no need for staying over at the inn. Just then, Eirik heard a familiar woman's voice shouting something to one of the bar-hands.

"Orgnar, hold down the bar for a minute, will you?" the woman then stepped out from behind the bar and Eirik saw that it was Delphine. Mjoll marveled at the middle-aged Breton woman. She was dressed in a simple blue dress, and yet she could tell, whether from the face, chiseled with years on the run and countless battles, or from the way she carried herself, that she was one who belonged with a sword in her hand.

"Well, you finally got here," Delphine said to Eirik. "Took you long enough. Come on downstairs, we've been waiting for you." She looked over at Mjoll. "And who is this one behind you?"

"This is Mjoll the Lioness," Eirik introduced. "She's with us."

"Can you be sure?"

"She helped Esbern and I escape from the Thalmor," he replied. "He will vouch for you."

Delphine looked Mjoll over then, turned and led them toward her room. Out came the key and she pushed the door open, ushering them both in quickly. Inside, she opened the wardrobe at the far end of the room, showing them both the secret entrance at the back of the wardrobe. Delphine went in first, down a flight of stone stairs, then followed Eirik and Mjoll. At the bottom of the stairs was a table, at which were three chairs. In one of them was Esbern, now clearly seen in the light of the torches. He was old, that much was certain: gray-bearded and bald, yet just as weathered as Delphine and as ready for a fight as Eirik.

"Hello again, Dragonborn," the old man said. "You certainly took your time in coming here."

"There were other things that arose," Eirik stated.

"Things more important than stopping Alduin the World-Eater?" Esbern grumbled. "And I see you brought the Nord woman with you. It's alright, Delphine, she's no spy." In the corner of his eye, Eirik saw Delphine return a sword to its sheath. "Now that you're here..." Esbern rose up and began searching a nearby chest. Delphine rolled her eyes, but Esbern was still searching and muttering to himself. Then at last he pulled out a book bound in red leather and placed it upon the table.

"Here it is!" he said, opening the book, whose title was _Annals of the Dragonguard._ "Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim. This is where they built it, the record in stone of all their accumulated dragon-lore, a hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries: Alduin's Wall, one of the wonders of the ancient world."

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Delphine asked, but Esbern shushed her.

"A wise and fore-sighted plan," Esbern continued. "Unfortunately, despite it's far-reaching fame at the time, the location of Alduin's Wall has been lost."

"What are you getting at, Esbern?" Delphine asked again.

Esbern laughed. "You mean you don't know? You haven't heard of Alduin's Wall?" He then looked at Eirik and Mjoll and saw equally clueless expressions on their faces.

"Let's say we haven't," Delphine stated. "What is Alduin's Wall and what does it have to do with stopping the dragons?"

"A nice way of saying you don't know, eh?" Esbern retorted. "Well, Alduin's Wall was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return. It served as both a historical account as well as a portent of the end to come: part history and part prophecy. Lost for centuries..." He walked over to the table and rolled open Delphine's map of Skyrim, which Eirik had seen on his first journey.

"I have found it," he said, half to himself and half to those present. "Not lost, but forgotten." He sighed.

"What's wrong?" Eirik asked.

"Exactly how much do you know about the history of the Great War?" he asked.

"Only so much that is told," Eirik replied. "The Nords fought big battles in Cyrodiil on the side of the Empire against the Aldmeri Dominion, and in return for their sacrifice, their ancient beliefs were stolen from them by the White-Gold Concordant."

"Is that all you know?" Esbern asked. "Believe me, this war is much greater than the Thalmor's hatred of Tiber Septim, whom the Nords call Ysmir and Talos, patron of heroes. The original eight Divines are called _aedra_ in Aldmeric, which means 'our ancestors.' The Aldmeri believed themselves to be the god-given masters of Tamriel and made war with any who defied them uncontested power and control of Tamriel. The Blades were the first casualty in the Great War. The Aldmeri Dominion demanded of Emperor Titus Mede II that the Empire pay heavy tribute to the Dominion, disband the Blades and outlaw the worship of Talos. The Emperor declined and was then showed the gift the Aldermi ambassador presented: the heads of every member of the Blades. The request for the dissolution of the Blades was an accomplished fact, already transpired when it had been asked for in the first place."

Eirik was silent for a moment, pondering what this meant. It seemed that his decision to join the rebellion was vindicated by this new revelation.

"The Aldmer wouldn't suffer anyone to have any kind of power or knowledge over their own," Esbern continued. "Killing the Blades was only the beginning. They plundered our archives." He laughed. "But I was able to save at least enough to find the lost location of Alduin's Wall."

"And you think that this wall is the key to defeating Alduin?" Delphine asked.

"Well, there's no guarantee," Esbern began. "But it's the best option we have, it's also our _only_ option."

"I'm willing to go on a little faith for now," Delphine nodded after a lengthy pause. "I knew you'd come through for us, Esbern."

"So, where is this place?" Eirik asked. "Sky Haven Temple..."

"It's in the Reach, is what I know," Delphine replied. "In the Karth River canyon, or near that place. Should be easy to find from Karthspire." She then paused again. "You're the Dragonborn, you decide our next move: go together or separately?"

Eirik looked at Mjoll, then turned to the others. "I've some things to do in the Rift. Once my business is completed, I'll meet you at Sky Haven."

"As you wish," Delphine conceded.

"Keep in mind, however," Esbern spoke up. "The longer you postpone the voyage, the stronger Alduin will grow. Time is of the essence!"

"I understand."

"So it's settled," Delphine finalized. "We'll see you in the Reach once you're ready to explore Sky Haven Temple. Don't take too long, though: I fear the dragons might not be content to confine themselves to terrorizing Skyrim alone while you attend to more 'important' matters."

* * *

Eirik bade Delphine and Esbern farewell, then went with Mjoll back up the stairs and into the room. From there they entered the common room of the inn, which had a few travelers deep in their tankards. As they walked through the room, Eirik saw that more than a few pairs of eyes were turned their way, with fierce malice lingering within. Some of them sent rude gestures their way, but no words were spoken. The air seemed tense, like the strings of a lute.

As they reached the door, Mjoll looked back at the room, for she heard one of the chairs creaking and, with the tenseness of the room, feared someone was about to do something. But her attention was not kept long because trouble was waiting for them just outside. Eirik had not made two steps out of the door when a rotten cabbage hit him from nearby. Mjoll looked about and saw a group of townspeople with ugly expressions throwing things at him.

"Traitors!" an old woman, Hilde, shouted. "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"We don't need your kind here!" a large man, Alvor the blacksmith, added.

"Here's what we think of you!" a young girl shouted.

Another hail of rotten food was thrown at Eirik, with the addition of handfuls of mud. He walked on, face set and resolute. Suddenly, a stone thrown from the crowd hit him in the side of the head and he crumbled to his knees. Mjoll stood between the crowd and Eirik, drawing out her battle-ax.

"They've got weapons!" a boy's voice shouted. "Guards! They're gonna attack us!"

"It would be just like you cowards to attack women and children!" Sigrid, Alvor's wife, added.

Just then, the guards, soldiers from Whiterun, ran into the fray, weapons drawn.

"What's all the commotion here?" one of the guards asked.

"They're Stormcloaks!" the boy shouted. "We don't want them here!"

"Go home, Frodnar!" the guard scolded. "You can't fool us!" He then turned to Eirik and Mjoll. "You know the law. Jarl Balgruuf has not allied with Ulfric Stormcloak, so the two of you need to clear off now...and put up your weapons!"

"That boy struck him with a stone!" Mjoll retorted, pointing to Frodnar.

"What stone?" the boy asked, holding up empty hands.

"Just be quiet and leave already," the soldier said. "We don't want any trouble here, and you Stormcloaks are trouble enough being alive. Go peacefully or we'll have to send you out by force."

"They're Nords, they don't listen to reason!" Alvor shouted. "Drive 'em out now!"

"Kill 'em on the spot!" old Hilde added.

"Your traitor-jarl is next!" added Sigrid.

"They attacked us!" Mjoll replied. "Just as we were coming out of the inn!"

"These people are allowed to say and do as they please," the guard replied. "You Stormcloaks better push off now, before this gets any worse."

Mjoll growled in frustration, then turned to help Eirik up off the ground. But she saw that he was already up and making his way out of town. She ran after him and found him down by the side of the road that flanked the southern bank of the White River. He was sitting on a rock at the river's edge, gazing into the river with a grim expression.

"You shouldn't give a thought to what they say," Mjoll said, kneeling at Eirik's side. "People in Riften give me hell because I won't sit by and let Maven Black-Briar keep the city in poverty. Accursed Thieves Guild! I've heard all sorts of names thrown at me, but after a while..."

"They're Nords." Eirik finally spoke, grim and solemn.

"What?"

"The people of Riverwood," Eirik began. "They're Nords, belonging to this land no more or less than the Stormcloaks, or our kinsmen who traverse across Tamriel, yet they willingly bend their knees and their backs to the Empire and the tyranny of the Dominion. Willingly! I can understand Cyrodilians feeling obliged to defend the honor of _their_ Empire, but these are Nords!"

"Good people are not confined to either Skyrim or Cyrodiil, as I've learned in my journeys," Mjoll said. "Likewise, evil people are not confined to either Skyrim or Cyrodiil, to one race or another."

Eirik did not reply, but picked up a stone from the bank and rolled it over in his hands. He threw it at an angle across the river, and it fell in upon hitting the water. Mjoll, near at hand, picked up a stone of her own and tossed it across the river: it skipped the surface twice before finally sinking below the water with a slight _plop._ Eirik tried again, but the stone once again fell in upon hitting the surface of the water.

"Tossing stones isn't going to help anything," Mjoll assured him. "Why not let's return to Riften? I can't wait to confront Jarl Laila about the corruption in Riften, now that we know what questions to ask."

"Aye," Eirik said. He turned about and looked up at the mountains in the south-east, in the direction of Helgen.

* * *

It was late when they finally reached the mountains. To their left and north hung the highest of peaks, the Throat of the World. To the right, in the gathering gloom of night, they could see afar off the wide green plains of Cyrodiil just below the mountains. So far and wide they were, dotted with trees that looked like the fletch of arrows painted green. On the edge of the horizon was a blue-gray semi-circle, the northernmost bay of Lake Rumere, and beyond sight, the Imperial City.

Near at hand, all was clad in thick drifts of snow, so deep that Eirik's boots were completely buried in the snow. All about them, the wind blew down from the east, beating down upon the mountains on its way south-west. Helgen was protected from these winds by the mountains, including the Throat of the World, but those upon the mountains were unprotected from the snow. Several times, Eirik thought he heard the howl of wolves or the growling of trolls.

They came to a high point, looking down upon a valley dotted by ancient Nord ruins. All was quiet, save for the wind that blew about them, filling their hair with snow from the higher peaks. Eirik breathed in deeply the cold, clean air of the high mountains and smiled. It was good to be in Skyrim, his native homeland. He turned to Mjoll and saw the strangest thing. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving soundlessly, sometimes half open, sometimes closed with her upper jaw biting down upon them. She sighed and uttered a sound that not only had Eirik never heard her make before, but had only heard one other woman make that kind of sound.

Lydia.

"Mjoll!" he spoke up over the wind. "Are you with us?"

"Hmm?" she asked, as if roused from a sleep or dream.

"I said are you with us?"

"Oh, yes, I am," she smiled. "I was just taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of the mountains. I love the cold air, it's exhilarating! Perhaps it's because of my Nord blood, but there's something about it that makes me feel alive."

"_Very_ alive," Eirik commented. "I enjoy the chill winds myself, but that was..."

"What?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "We won't make it to Riften before nightfall, encumbered as we are in the mountains. Let's find a place to set camp, somewhere out of the path of the wind."

They found no place more protected from the wind than an old tower at the top of the hill that overlooked the ruins below. They settled at the lowest level, where the wind was not as severe. Eirik unfurled his bed-roll and prepared to sleep, but saw Mjoll standing by herself at the entrance of the tower, looking out into the snow.

"This is madness!" he exclaimed. "Come in and be warm!"

"You know my answer to that!" she replied. "Besides, I'm going to be first-watch. There's something not right about this place, I can feel it in my bones." She turned back, leaning against the wall of the tower. "Where are we exactly?"

"We should be near Arcwind Point," Eirik stated. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to spend the night in sleep. You weren't the one hit on the head by Frodnar the Trickster."

"I heard some of the guards say that he was a Stormcloak supporter," Mjoll spoke up. "Why would he be joining the mob of Imperial supporters in trying to drive us out?"

"He probably thought it would be good sport if he threw a stone and hit someone," Eirik sighed. "Maybe get the people in trouble if the guards thought _they_ threw the stone. Or maybe he really isn't as patriotic as his parents and uncle told me. Either way, he didn't get the last laugh out of his prank. Now, goodnight."

"Aye," Mjoll replied.

Eirik fell asleep shortly thereafter. But sleep did not rest long upon his eyes, or so it seemed to him. Moments later, there was a commotion and he found himself being shaken awake. He awoke to find Mjoll within inches from his face. Outside, the wind no longer whistled but howled and frothed as though it were being greatly stirred in fury. Growling sounds and roars were heard as well, and every so often, the stones of the tower would shake and shiver. Mjoll had Grimsever in her hand.

"Took you long enough to wake up!" she scolded. "We're under attack! There's draugr about and something else."

She didn't have to say what, for the roar that split the midnight air gave Eirik all the proof he needed.

* * *

**(AN: Thank you for waiting, both for this update and for a really big battle scene [to come].)  
**

**(I try to get across Eirik's rationale for staying with the Stormcloaks, but sometimes it seems like I'm flogging a dead horse. Let me see if this makes it any clearer: in Eirik's mind, Nords who support the Empire [like the Battle-Born clan] are the Uncle Toms of Skyrim.)**


	25. Endless Warfare

**(AN: A bit over-the-top, this action scene, but then again, Arcwind is a bit over-the-top in my opinion, and I need to begin the _Dragonborn_ quest-line as well [obviously, the main quest will be delayed, but not one whole year of game time, like I have in my main]. Lol, it's just that I got my ass handed to me by the bridge-guard at level 28ish, and I want to hit 50 before I attempt it again [I've crawled my way back up to 48]. That comment that Delphine made in the last chapter, also, has given me the inspiration to explore outside of Skyrim for a bit. Oh, the possibilities!) **

**(I know that the game is called "Skyrim" for a reason, but honestly, what is keeping a winged dragon from flying out of Skyrim to conquer other parts of Tamriel? Do you honestly think they'll respect the Empire's martial law of Skyrim just for the sake of the game? Just gonna bend the rules slightly for the sake of realism and seeing what the rest of Tamriel [or at least Cyrodiil, Hammerfell and Morrowind proper] thinks about the coming of the dragons. Obviously, since the story seeks to be _really_ big, we'll have time to follow the story and see some of these sub-plots, but the main story will continue, as well as our hero and the Lioness, to be the driving force of the story.)**

**(Of course, we won't be doing that here and now, obviously. That's just a fore-thought about future chapters [and a slight suggestion?], because right now, all hell has broken loose in Arcwind Point!)**

* * *

**Endless Warfare**

The rush of wind and the roar of the dragon stirred Eirik from his sleep more than Mjoll's words. He pushed himself off his bed-roll and drew out his great-sword. He ran to the wall, placing his back against it, with Mjoll at his side. There were no wide windows in the tower, which served them more than it hindered them. From the sound of steel snicking off the outside of the tower, the draugr had bows and that made wide windows more of a harm than a help during a siege, which this was nothing short of, by Ysmir.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" a raspy voice shrieked in the distance.

The whole tower's foundation shook, as though the earth itself were shaking beneath the stones.

"By the gods!" Eirik exclaimed. "They have a death-lord!"

Death-lords were hersirs of the ancient Nordic race, some of them even jarls. Legends had it that the first humans in Skyrim worshiped the dragons and the hersirs were the most powerful warriors, servants of the priests of the dragon-worshiping cults. They were imbued with powers of the _Dovahthu'um_, the voice of the dragons. They were very skilled and mighty warriors, these hersirs. In some of the stories that survived, it was said that Ysgramor's Five Hundred were all such mighty warriors, though this may have been an exaggeration on the part of the bards. Eirik had fought at least one, in the barrow at Bleak Falls, and knew that they were no trifling matter.

But add a dragon to that?

"How many do you think are out there?" Mjoll asked.

Three consecutive snicks against the wall were heard. Then the tower shook again as the death-lord's Thu'um struck it.

"At least three," Eirik said. "And that death-lord! To say nothing of..." The dragon roared. "...him."

"I'll run out first," Mjoll said. "Create a diversion, then you run up behind me and cut them down, right?"

"That's your plan?"

"I am invincible, after all," Mjoll replied with a wink. She drew out her ax and ran out the door with a cry of "Sovngarde awaits you!"

Eirik looked out as he saw Mjoll running towards a group of four walking skeletons and a mighty draugr death-lord. One of the skeletons shot her in the arm, but she kept on running. Another hit her in the chest, she staggered, but kept on running. The last one missed her entirely, but by then the others had drawn their bows and two more arrows came whizzing towards Mjoll. One flew threw her hair, but the one that struck her left knee-cap sent her to the ground. From behind ran Eirik, almost tumbling down the inclining hill that led into the main part of the ruins. Great-sword drawn, he swung it in a wide arc that sent two of the nearest skeletons clattering into the snow as shards of broken bones.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" the death-lord shouted.

Before he could move or say a word, Eirik was thrust backward into the snow, as if he had been struck back by the tail of a dragon. He rose up, but saw that the draugr was not focusing on him. The dragon was circling overhead, breathing fire down upon the valley. The draugr ran from the fury of the dragon's breath, but Mjoll was still incapacitated, facing the flames directly down upon her.

"Dragon!" Eirik shouted up into the midnight sky. "Come down and face your doom! Face the _Dovahkiin_!"

The dragon circled overhead once, and then twice, then roared flames down again. But Eirik was quick and evaded the gust of fire. As he was getting back onto his feet, he heard the growling of the draugr death-lord near at hand. He turned around and saw the death-lord swinging a great-sword at Eirik. He drew out his own sword, and the blow was held. But the draugr was not living: like the skeletons, he feared nothing and felt no pain. It swung its sword again, but Eirik parried it with his own sword. The draugr pushed against him with his own strength, bearing down against Eirik. The draugr roared, and for a moment, Eirik feared that he would be shouted at close range. That close, he could be torn to pieces.

But he was strong as well. He let himself fall back into the snow, and the draugr's strength sent him tumbling over Eirik and into the snow. He pushed himself back up and readied his sword for the final blow, running the draugr through the face with his sword. Down the blade went, but the draugr seized it with his bare-hands. Eirik pushed against the draugr, but his blade could not penetrate its face. Then the ground shook and Eirik was back on the snow again.

The dragon had landed, shattering the remaining two skeletons, and was making its way through the snow easily on its heavy clawed feet towards him. Eirik was scrambling up to his feet, sword in hand, ready to attack the dragon. He ran towards the beast, but something jumped at him from behind and he tumbled down the snowy hill, something foul-smelling gnawing at his neck. It was the draugr. Deathless, it could not die, nor could it be defeated as easily as those enemies of flesh and blood which he had slain. It tackled him to the ground and glowered over him, seething and growling in the ancient language of the dragons. It raised its sword up and, as Eirik had attempted to do before, tried to thrust it down into his exposed chest. But at that moment, a snow-clad figure leaped up and threw the draugr to the ground once again. It rose again, but this new foe was stronger and more agile. For a moment, Eirik turned and caught a glimpse of his rescuer. It was Mjoll the Lioness, stuck fast with arrows like a pincushion and bleeding from her wounds, yet standing strong and resolute. Her battle-ax was in her hands.

"Go!" she cried out to Eirik. "Slay the dragon! I'll keep this one busy!"

But while Eirik had been looking, the dragon had not been idle. With a swing of its long, snake-like neck, it threw Eirik against the flanks of the stony hill-side against which the tower rested. Eirik growled as he struck the rock, for it felt as though something were broken. He rose up, but found that his sword arm could not be moved. There before him was the dragon, ready now to strike or breathe flames of burning death down upon him. And he was thus encumbered.

Suddenly, the dragon stood back and did not attack. On the hills surrounding Arcwing Point, torches were lit that illuminated the darkness. He had not noticed them at first, but they had been burning all throughout the fight. They burned so brightly that one could guess, from a distance, that the hills were on fire. In the dim light, Eirik could see figures in black walking through the snow to meet him. There were five of them, a little shorter than himself, and he couldn't see any indication of who or what they might be. Nearby, he could see Mjoll turning her ax towards the new-comers.

"They look like Greybeards," Eirik said. "They're friends."

Two of the figures gathered by Mjoll, while the three main ones made a semi-circle around Eirik. The one in the middle stepped forward.

"Are you the one calling himself the Dragonborn?" the voice asked. Eirik could not place the accent, though the hooded one spoke the common tongue, but it was no accent of Nord that he understood. But the words they said made Eirik certain that he had been wrong: these were _not_ the Greybeards.

"I know who I am," Eirik replied warily.

"Death to the heretic!" one of them shouted out.

Two of them drew daggers, while the middle one held out his hands, as though he were about to cast a spell. Eirik was barely capable of holding up his sword-arm, and he was surrounded. There seemed to be no hope, save only if the gods themselves stepped down and aided him. Yet no apparition of Akatosh or Stendarr, or even of mighty Talos, appeared in the sky, nor came the daedric princes either: not even shifty Clavicus Vile to make a deal that Eirik would rue in the end. Nothing, but...

His vision was distorted, and he could see a strange image before him, shining with light. The voice was beautiful and melodic, but it was not the voice of Mjoll, or of anyone he had ever seen or heard in his entire life.

"Your time has not yet come, mortal," the voice said. "The night eternal must never come to pass."

"Who are you?" Eirik asked. "Dibella? Mara? Kynareth? Answer me, please! How shall I escape this?"

But there was no answer, for the vision had faded. Then Eirik felt strength anew in his arm again. It could move. The hooded figure lunged at Eirik, but he was too quick, with his strength again. Drawing out his sword, he swung a wide arc. The nearest one fell back, wounded, but the other two lunged at him _en masse_, hoping to overwhelm him with numbers. But momentum was on Eirik's side, and he followed up his swing with another: the first figure fell in two, while the other one lost an arm and the blade of Eirik's sword was buried in the third one's side, falling dead into the snow, colored violet with their blood. It was no human, that was certain.

Nearby, Eirik saw Mjoll had buried her ax directly in the center of the head of one of the others, then engaged in a fist-fight with the last one. Eirik picked up his sword and turned towards the first one who had fallen. He hadn't died, but was only wounded, staggering backwards, with hands raised.

"You doubt that I'm the Dragonborn?" Eirik asked.

"There is only one who is true master of the Voice!" the hooded one hissed. "He is the one who shall rule all the worlds in the name of the dragons, as it was in the beginning!"

"What are you saying?" Eirik asked again.

"Stupid Nord!" the hooded one laughed grimly. "Did you really think you were the only one?"

"Afraid, are you?" Eirik replied with equal laughter. He took a step forward. "Your master's not here to hold your hand!"

"You won't kill me, fool!" said the one in the hood. "You are the one in the trap, and if you kill me, the dragon will devour you!"

"You want to test that?" the Nord queried. "Let that dragon free and I'll show you why I'm the Dragonborn."

"Heathen! Fool! Ignorant daedric worshiper!" the hooded one shouted, drawing out his dagger. "Die, savage! Die!"

But Eirik was quicker and thrust his sword outward, running the hooded one through with his blade. But just then, the dragon suddenly roared to life, striking at Eirik with its neck once again. He struck the rock hard, but his arm was still whole. Whoever had appeared was most certainly on his side, and had given him new strength. He ran towards the dragon, sword drawn, and hacked at its oncoming mouth. The dragon recoiled, spewing black blood and a broken tooth on the snow.

"_Yol...Toor Shul!_" the dragon roared.

But something threw Eirik aside. He hit the snow, but something was now on fire and was on top of him. It roared and flailed, and Eirik saw what it was suddenly: a second draugr death-lord. It staggered for a moment, on fire as it was, but recovered as it rolled in the snow. Eirik was up on his feet and drove his sword through the draugr's chest. But the dragon loomed before him, mouth opening for another attack.

"Die, dragon!" Mjoll shouted, striking at the beast with her ax. But the blade was notched. She tossed it aside and drew out Grimsever. This got the dragon's attention, for the malachite blade broke through the thick hide of the dragon's scales. It roared again, and stepped on her with its mighty clawed foot. Eirik, meanwhile, lowered his sword forward like a spear and turned towards the dragon.

"_Wuld!_" he shouted.

All suddenly became dark, and when Eirik suddenly saw light again, he was covered in black blood. A streak of black blood was behind him, leading to the body of the dragon, smoldering just under sixteen yards behind him. Looking down, he saw the dragon's heart had been torn out and was impaled on the blade of his sword. He fell exhausted onto the snow, blackened with dragon's blood. His sword-arm was aching, but he could move it slightly. He had been healed by whatever great one had visited him, but full healing would take a while.

When at last strength returned to his bones, as the soul of the slain dragon coursed through his body from his victory, he pushed himself onto his feet and walked over to the bodies of the slain. The draugr had burned away, and whatever had befallen the first draugr death-lord, he knew not. The others, however, he began examining. The first one, the one he had slain last, he approached the body. He removed the hood, and saw that there was no face beneath the hood. It was a mask, white like bone, with two carved eyes and many tendrils upon the chin, in imitation of the netches of Morrowind. He removed the mask and saw a hideous face, dark blue with high-cheek bones, sweeping eyebrows and sightless, red eyes gazing up at him in fear and loathing. This was a Dunmer, one of the people of Morrowind, the dark elves. He searched the body, finding only the dagger and a note.

_Board the Northern Maiden. She sails to Windhelm out of Raven Rock. Once there, begin your search. If the false Dragonborn, the Nord Eirik, cannot be found in the cities, set an ambush for him in a place where a dragon will appear. Kill him before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success and Lord Miraak shall be most pleased._

Eirik stowed the letter in his belt, then made his way towards one lying on the ground among the bodies. Eirik walked over and found Mjoll lying in the snow. She looked rather worse for ware: she had three arrows in her body and her flesh had been seared by dragon's fire. That was beginning to heal, a marvel before his eyes, yet he saw that she moved not.

"Mjoll?" he whispered. "Mjoll, are you well? Can you hear me?"

She nodded. With great effort, she reached up to her chest and pulled out the arrow from her chest. She then reached for her other arm and yanked out the arrow from her arm. Eirik pulled out the one from her knee and she gave a loud cry in pain.

"What, done in by an arrow in the knee?" Eirik jested.

"It hurts every time!" she replied through clenched teeth. Once it was out, she fell backwards into the cold snow. "But I'm alive, Mara be praised." She laughed, and for the first time since they left Whiterun, Eirik felt at ease. Just hearing Mjoll laugh made him forget all of his weariness, or the fact that he had been so close to death mere moments ago.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Eirik said, looking back down the hill at the ruins below.

"Didn't you and Esbern come this way before, when you were escaping the attack on the inn at Ivarstead?" Mjoll asked.

"We crossed farther north, closer to Haemar's Shame," Eirik replied. "Come now, I won't be able to sleep after that, we might as well walk the rest of the way to Riften."

"You need to bathe," Mjoll laughed. "You're covered in blood, and its starting to reek."

Eirik laughed. It seemed good to find Mjoll in a jovial humor. But he couldn't argue with what she had said: dragon blood was possibly the foulest smelling thing he had ever smelt, especially once it started to dry and ferment. He gave her his hand and they both rose to their feet. He placed his sword back onto his back while Mjoll walked over to what was left of the dragon and picked up her ax.

"The blade is notched," she said. "Perhaps Balimund can repair it once we return to Riften." Eirik rubbed some of the snow off himself, then looked up and saw the torches flickering away on the hill about them. An ideal spot for an ambush, he guessed. Trapped between dragons and draugr, it would have been an easy task, were it not for Mjoll and that strange person who appeared before him in the very nick of time.

Suddenly, Eirik became aware of the howling of the wind and sound of wolves in the distance. Mjoll had a habit of always talking, but she had suddenly fallen silent. He walked over to where she stood, or rather where she knelt. She was on the ground on her knees, cradling something in her arms as if it were a sick child. Eirik looked down from over her shoulder and sighed in weariness and frustration. All at once, he felt as though the trip to Mzinchaleft was for naught.

Lying in Mjoll's arms was Grimsever, her treasured blade. It was cloven in two, having snapped in half when she drove it into the dragon's neck and it thrashed about when Eirik's Thu'um ripped out the dragon's heart.

* * *

**(AN: I was actually being very very conservative with the numbers. I went back to Arcwind in the game and was attacked by about _FOUR_ draugr death-lords, plus the dragon, and eight skeletons. Predictably, Mjoll and I survived, and kicked ass. But I sincerely dumbed it down, because the last time Eirik took on insurmountable odds in this story, it was called 'un-realistic'. Seriously, four draugr death-lords, a dragon, four skeletons and five cultists?)**

**(Speaking of which, I have realized that when I write big battles, there are points where some of the people are just paused because the action is focusing on what's going on with Eirik and the immediate foe. This is why I hate writing battle scenes, because I have to move _ALL_ the players at the same time and make it sound believable. So I kind of fudged up that "spell" that the cultists used to control the dragon while they attacked Eirik. After all, their 'master' has that ability, he must have given them a weaker spell for the use of this ambush.)**

**(As far as the Nordic mob in Riverwood, well, that was just something I added because it seems that EVERYONE is pro-Empire. Both of my brothers are pro-Empire, everyone on tumblr is pro-Empire, everyone on here is pro-Empire, sometimes it feels like I'm in a mob of pro-Imperials who throw shit at me because I won't join the Empire!)**


	26. Eirik's Plan

**(AN: I did make a reference to the dragon soul being absorbed. I didn't make a big deal about it, because by this time, it wasn't that big of a deal and Mjoll wasn't really witnessing it [she was on the ground, healing from her burns]. As for lore, well, I've got to be on my toes with these reviewers!)**

**(-sigh- There aren't many moments that I could think of, until about _Hearthfire_, when there will be a chance for real interaction with children, where Mjoll could see that there's more to Eirik than just being a bad-ass dragon-slayer. Unfortunately, I don't want that to happen just yet. Once we get back to Falkreath, or one of those holds, then things will start happening. But you know, that won't be a major sub-plot, because that only comes to a conclusion rather quickly.)**

**(Riften..._again!_ I just can't seem to leave it in this story.)**

* * *

**Eirik's Plan  
**

It was still dark when the two travelers finally left the mountains and were passing through the western borders of the Rift. Mjoll said nothing all all, she just held what was left of her treasured blade in her arms. Eirik kept his sword drawn, for the attack of the cultists and the wolf cries in the hills made him wary. But no attack happened all that night, even after they passed through the snows of the mountains and were once again in the Rift.

Some time early in the morning, before dawn, the two of them were making their way along the northern flanks of the mountains when they saw lights in the distance. They made that way in silence, fearing that this might not be a friendly camp. It could be a bandit camp, an outpost of the Imperial legion, or it could possibly be Largashbur, an orc stronghold somewhere in the southern Rift: either way, it would mean ill news for the travelers. They crept along quietly, coming to the back part of the camp under cover of darkness. There was a large tent near the side of the mountain and voices coming from the tent. They could not hear the voices, but their desire to hear what was being said was made impossible by the sentries. There was one beating a path around exactly where they were going and would spot them in the light of his torch.

"_Zul...Mey Gut!_" Eirik whispered.

"Marcus, over here!" the sentry shouted. "Thought I heard something!"

"Superstitious Nord!" the one called Marcus replied. "It was just the wind. Do I need to tell Fasendil you're falling asleep on your watch?"

"I'm positive I heard something!"

While they were arguing, Eirik and Mjoll crept along to the back of the tent. They were now close enough that they could hear what was being said within. There was one voice, an Altmer. The other voice was Cyrodilian, grim, aloof and arrogant, as though he had seen all that could be seen and had lost interest in everything Tamriel had to offer.

"Any word on what happened in Cheydinhal?" the Cyrodilian asked.

"We can barely keep track of all these ignorant barbarians, much less anyone else!" the Altmer replied. "Besides, didn't you say there was a note on one of them? Something about Windhelm. That's Stormcloak territory, none of our business."

"You and I both know how much Ulfric hates the elves," the Cyrodilian stated. "How they could have gotten past his lackeys and into Skyrim is beyond me."

"Don't you have connections?" the elf asked. "What about that child in Windhelm? Word is that you went there shortly after your arrival in Solitude."

"No one's supposed to know about that," the Cyrodilian retorted. "Still, it doesn't bode well, that the Stormcloaks could let something this important slip through."

"Shows what a weak ruler that Ulfric really is!" the elf suggested, then the two of them laughed. After a length of silence, the Altmer spoke. "What about your _other_ matter?"

"Nothing," the Cyrodilian said grumpily. "I thought he'd go back to Helgen, but there's nothing there. Then when I found his trail again, those cultists appeared and I had to lose them as well. Once I did, I found that their footprints had already buried his trail."

"Do you think he'd come back here?"

"I'm not sure," the Cyrodilian stated. "But if he does, I'll be waiting for him."

When they listened to all that they cared hearing, Eirik and Mjoll slowly made their way onward and towards the outside of the camp. Once they were well beyond the reach of the camp, they halted in the deep darkness. Both were exhausted from the fight and the flight down the mountain.

"Did you hear what they said?" Mjoll asked.

"Aye," Eirik nodded. "It seems we're not the only ones who are being sought by those cultists."

"But what reason would the Dunmer have to want you dead?"

"I can think of many," Eirik began. "They see me as just another Stormcloak, for just one."

"I see," Mjoll said. "But still, why would they be after a member of the Imperial Legion?"

"I don't know," Eirik replied. "But I think we should camp here tonight. I am too weary and I don't think we'll be able to reach Riften alive, not in this darkness. Crossing the Treva River won't be easy, especially at night. Then there's the chance of assault by bandits, or wolves, or whatever night creatures inhabit the Rift."

"But the danger would be greater if we slept out of doors like this," Mjoll said.

"I'd rather fight them fully rested than die wearied and unable to defend myself," Eirik grimly said. "We'll rest for the night." In the dark, Mjoll could not see his eyebrows raise as he suggested the following: "If you're restless, maybe you should take first watch."

"I don't know," Mjoll sighed. "I don't feel safe without..."

"Is it really that important?" Eirik asked, tired and frustrated with her difficulty. But he immediately remembered that this was not the right thing to say.

"That was the last memento of my family!" she replied fiercely. "The only piece of home I have left. I remember..." She sighed. "My mother, she was the one who taught me how to wield a sword. I still remember what happened that day."

"Which day?"

"It's nothing," Mjoll replied. "I'll take first watch."

It was impossible for Eirik to reply, for he fell asleep the moment his head hit the ground.

* * *

When morning arrived, there was not much of anything to report. Whether by some good fortune or blessing of the Divines, they had escaped being attacked or molested in any way during the night. Neither of them said anything as they ate sparingly from their supply of food. The sun was overcast with clouds, a fitting setting for the grim morning after a bleak twilight.

They walked on, crossing the Treva in daylight at the shallowest point. There was only one legal entrance into Riften, and that was through the North Gate, which meant that travelers in the southern part of the Rift, usually from Cyrodiil, had to ford the river in order to reach the city. There were no bandits or Imperial soldiers waiting for them at the ford and they crossed without incident. Turning east, they made a weary march to Riften, where they passed through the gates unaccosted. The city was grim and filthy as usual, or perhaps the overcast sky and their current predicament made it all the more dreary.

"If it is well with you," Mjoll spoke up. "I would like to see how Aerin has been doing since we left."

"Oh yes," Eirik nodded. "I have to speak with the Jarl anyway. I will see you back at Aerin's house this evening?"

"Aye," Mjoll replied with a grim smile.

The two of them parted ways, but while Mjoll was walking away, an old woman approached Eirik with hand held out. Looking about, he reached into his purse and gave the woman a gold septim. He turned towards Mistveil Keep, unaware that, at that moment, Mjoll had cast a glance back at him and saw his charitable deed.

Today, the hall was not as filled with people as it had once been. The jarl's sons, Harrald and Saerlund, were sitting at the table, eating and drinking. For a moment, Eirik was confused as to which Bosmer he should speak with, for he saw two of them present. One was at the table, speaking with Jarl Laila's huscarl, while the other was by herself, looking through her robes as if searching for something that was no longer there. Eirik approached this one first.

"Well met!" the Bosmer woman greeted. She rose from her seat and knocked her goblet over, spilling its contents upon the table. "Oh, please, pardon me. I'm not used to being out of my study like this. I'm usually busy studying the mysteries of magic. I...Now, what had I forgotten?"

"Have you forgotten something?" Eirik asked, though he was almost certain now that this was not the Bosmer he was looking for.

"Huh, forgotten?" she asked. "Now, where did I put those..." She began rambling on, but Eirik was turned instead to the one he was certain was the stewardess, Anuriel. He walked across the table and stood before her.

"Oh, hello there," Anuriel greeted. "Say, haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Yes, in this very hall," Eirik replied. "I've recently returned from Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak wants to know why Riften has given no aid to the war effort."

In surprise, Anuriel laughed, then placed down her goblet. "You're probably the third person this week to ask that!" she began. "And I'll tell you what I told the others: Jarl Laila would gladly offer aid to the Stormcloaks, if there were more money to be given. As it turns out, there hasn't been any surplus due to aiding the people of Riften."

"With what, empty promises?" Eirik retorted. "The people are starving, barely able to scratch a living, while the Thieves Guild..."

"The Thieves Guild are not a problem," Anuriel stated. "People like to lay blame on them for all the city's problems, but they're wrong. They're rabble now, nothing a good scourging of the Ratways by the city guard couldn't handle."

"Then why hasn't it been done?" Eirik asked.

"You forget your place, Nord!" Anuriel retorted, a disgusted tone in her voice.

"My place is to warn you," Eirik said. "That if nothing has been sent by the end of the month, then Ulfric will order a full-scale investigation..."

At this, Anuriel looked up at Eirik with a scathing look in her red eyes. "You know I can't authorize something like this on a whim. There's weapon quotas to be met, revenue to be raised, an escort to be hired, carriage driver paid..."

"And yet Maven Black-Briar can get whatever she wants immediately by simply asking," Eirik stated.

"That's different!" Anuriel retorted. "She's a very important part of our economy, she's a trusted friend of the Jarl."

"One might even be inclined to believe these rumors of corruption..."

"It's a lie, all of it!" Anuriel shouted, rising up to her feet and glaring angrily up at Eirik. Though she was not physically imposing - her head barely came up to the level of Eirik's chin - her red eyes made her seem even more venomous. Her tirade had caught the attention of everyone in the room, including Unmid Snow-Shod, the huscarl, who had his sword drawn.

"I'll see what I can do," she calmly replied, then returned to her seat. Eirik turned to Jarl Laila and bowed, then turned and made his way towards the door. While he was walking, a man in a black hood and cloak bumped into him.

"Watch it, troll-bait!" the man replied in a gravely Cyrodilian accent.

Eirik recognized the voice from the night before, but made no move one way or another. He waited until the stranger had passed through, then made his way to the doors and halted, keeping his back turned. He could hear the newcomer share words with Anuriel, but a quick glance backwards saw that Anuriel and the newcomer were staring at him. He turned back around and left the hall.

While he was walking the streets of Riften, he smelled the familiar scent of the blacksmith's forge. He followed the scent to a smithy set up on the edge of the market-square, where a tall, golden-haired Nord was beating a sword with a hammer upon his anvil.

"Hail, kinsman," the Nord smith greeted. "Come to see Balimund perform miracles with steel?"

"I'm in need of a repair," Eirik said. "There's a blade, belonging to a friend of mine. It's very precious to her, and it was broken in a fight with a dragon."

"Yeah, that can happen," Balimund replied. "From what I've heard, a dragon's hide is like rock and its bones iron." He whistled. "What I wouldn't give to forge something with that!"

"Well, what I have is a malachite short-sword," Eirik stated.

"You're in luck," Balimund said. "I just happen to have several ingots of refined malachite, ready for the forge. Do you have the sword with you?"

"I'll be over with it shortly," Eirik replied.

"Mhm," Balimund grumbled, then returned to his forge.

Eirik, meanwhile, made his way through the streets of Riften to Aerin's house. He knew the way now and was pleased to see the message from the Thieves Guild had long since been washed away from the front of his house. He knocked, and waited for the young Cyrodilian to respond. While he looked down the streets, he saw two shady figures standing on the edge of the crowd. One was the one in the black hood he had encountered in the keep, the other was a slender Cyrodilian woman with a thin, angular face that seemed prone to mischief. What was surprising was that this wicked face had strong Nordic features: blond hair and pale skin, yet it wore these like a caricature, a hideous mask in mockery of all that was traditionally beautiful.

While he was wondering this, Aerin opened the door.

"Hello again, friend," he greeted. "Come inside, Mjoll's already here."

"How is she?" Eirik asked.

"She's not been herself, truth be told," Aerin began. "She said Grimsever was broken in an ordeal with a dragon, and now she doesn't feel safe leaving the house."

"Where is it?"

"Grimsever?" Aerin asked. "I have it here on the table." He gestured to a small table nearby, where the two shards of the blade rested.

"Let me have them, I have a plan," Eirik began. "I'll be back shortly, hopefully with good news. Until I return, open the door for no one! Do you hear me? I feel we're being watched."

* * *

**(AN: Well, that chapter felt like it went on forever.)**


	27. The Other One

**(AN: Here's a new chapter, and one of [maybe] many new supporting characters to appear in the story. You're going to enjoy it, I know you will)  
**

* * *

**The Other One  
**

The sun was going down beyond the mountains far to the west. In Riften, Eirik returned to Aerin's house from Balimund's forge, where he had delivered Grimsever. After the attack at Arcwind Point, things were now seeming to be looking up for them. The blade would be reforged, and he had given Anuriel a convincing ultimatum: whether or not she would follow up on it would prove her loyalty. The Divines, it seemed, were on his side this day.

Eirik's sleep was filled with horrible dreams of dragon's fire and the cold, clammy clawed-hands of the Falmer. Then new images came into his dream. He saw the sun turned red and darkened. Creatures pale of flesh and red of eye ruled this dark land, while above the dragons flew, imposing their tyranny as they had once done in times past. The world was falling, fire and ice, the high mountains crumbling to dust, as the black dragon glowered over all of the broken lands. Then he saw the image, the woman clothed in sun, moon and starlight, the one whose vision had saved his life at Arcwind Point. She held out her hand to him, beckoning him to come towards her as if she had the only safety.

But the dream ended as swiftly as the vision had faded, and Eirik woke once again, lying on the floor of the bottom level of Aerin's house. He had a bed-roll along with a blanket rolled up for a pillow beneath his head, compliments of Aerin. He walked over to a short table where sat a basin of water. He drank from it, swirled the water in his mouth, then spat it back into the basin. Then he dove both hands into the basin and splashed the water on his face. Once done, he collected his sword and made for the door. He would arrive at the Bee and Barb first and eat his breakfast before going on with the day's work. Being a lumberjack most of his life, he had gotten used to rising with the sun and getting as much work done while the day lasted, which carried over into his days as an adventurer.

No sooner had he reached the door when he heard a knock. Pushing it open, he saw a Breton man with a purse at his side bristling with notes.

"Hail, friend," the man said. "I have a letter here for you." He reached into his purse and pulled it out, giving it to Eirik. The letter was wrapped in a cloth that was heavy and bulging. "Got to go, more deliveries to make, no time for chit-chat!"

He took off without a word, leaving Eirik to open the cloth and read from the note by himself: and what he read was shocking.

_Eirik Dragonborn_

_I regret to inform you that, last night, my shop was broken into by thieves. They stole my stock of malachite, as well as the short-sword you had given me to repair. I have here inclosed a bit of coin for your trouble. It isn't much, but I have little to give. I have to restock my supply, but there is no malachite in the city._

_Balimund_

At the bottom of the cloth were a few gold septims. Eirik was furious. Just when it seemed that his luck had taken a turn for the better, this had happened. But it was too convenient, that all of Balimund's malachite was stolen, as well as Grimsever. Breakfast would have to wait, as he intended to visit Balimund's shop and see just how these thieves accomplished this act. He took the gold and took off for Balimund's smithy. It took him a little while, but he found the shop, with the forge cold and unheated. He saw one of the windows had been broken through, and on it was carved the circle within the diamond: the sign of the Thieves Guild.

"Damn!" Eirik sighed. "They won't give up! But how did they know this?"

Suddenly, there was a sound heard in the sky above. The sound of rushing wind, and the roar of a dragon. The beast flew overhead, breathing fire down upon the town. It was too easy: Riften all of wood, it would catch fire easily and fall into the lake. Eirik ran over to a guard and asked him for his bow.

"I can't let you do that!" the guard replied. "It's my duty to protect this city!"

"Then tend to the fires!" Eirik shouted. "I'm the only one who can slay dragons."

"Tell that to that guy," the guard stated, pointing towards one of the houses on the edge of the wall of flames.

To his surprise, Eirik saw a figure in black scaling the wall of one of the two story houses. He was now on the roof, walking carefully on the tiles towards the northern end of the city. Though Eirik never had the need to climb on building walls like a damnable spider, he recognized the gear. It was _him_, the man in black he had met at Mistveil Keep yesterday evening. If the dragon slew him, he would never know why he was here or if he really was the same one from the Imperial camp.

It took Eirik a while to clamber up onto the roof, and even then, he found it hard keeping his footing on the slanting roofs. Now he could see the one in black drawing back his bow, an arrow fitted on the strings. As the dragon made a pass over the town, the black-clad figure let loose his arrow. Suddenly, the figure was yanked off the roof and Eirik saw him now dangling from the bottom of the dragon by a cord he had fastened to his shaft. Eirik climbed back down onto the ground and ran off down the street, following the path of the dragon out of the city.

"Eirik!" Mjoll cried out. He skid to a halt, seeing Mjoll with Aerin, both of them carrying buckets in their hands. They were going to the Bunkhouse, which had caught the majority of the dragon's breath. "Where are you going? We have to help the people!"

"If that dragon comes back," he panted. "All the water in Lake Honrich won't matter."

"I'll be there shortly," she replied. "But first, I have to help put the fires out. I am Riften's protector, after all."

Eirik nodded, then took off again. He threw himself against the gates, which were not locked and fell open as he hit the cobblestone road hard. Pushing himself up, he saw the dragon circling about the towers, making another pass at the town. The it quivered in mid-air, gave out a breath-less cry, and came crashing into the trees just a few yards outside of town. Eirik ran the rest of the way to the spot, where he saw the wreck of the dragon, white-barked aspens lying broken all about where it had fallen. The dragon was burning, as though its soul was being devoured. Strangely enough, Eirik felt nothing. He stepped up to where one of the dragon's wings lay, but there was no overwhelming sensation of strength and vigor.

Then he saw it rise up out of the wreck of the dragon, covered in black blood. Hood cast off, he saw who this stranger was. He was Cyrodilian, that much was certain, with a grim, wicked expression on his beard-less face. His hands were held out over the body of the dragon, and Eirik saw, to his shock, that the dragon's soul was going into _him_. He seemed quite pleased with his kill.

"Who the hell are you?" Eirik asked, once the sound of rushing wind subsided.

"I thought I told you to get lost," the Cyrodilian replied coldly.

"Tell me who you are!" Eirik retorted.

The Cyrodilian snorted. "Stupid fucking Nords, you're all alike. Think you can muscle your way over anyone and out of anything." He spat in Eirik's face. "That's what I think about you, troll-bait!"

Eirik drew out his great-sword with both hands. He looked at the Cyrodilian, and saw that he had a single black dagger in his hand, far too short to be of any use against his sword. He smiled grimly. "I'll make you eat those words, Imperial!"

"Ooh, a Nord with a sword!" the Cyrodilian mocked. Then, to Eirik's surprise, he sheathed his dagger. "You honestly think that's gonna stop me? I just killed a fucking dragon! What did _you_ kill, some defenseless Argonian baby?" He snorted. "Just like a Stormcloak, won't kill anything but what can't defend itself!"

"I don't need a sword to teach you manners," Eirik replied, then lowered his sword.

"_**FUS RO DAH!**_"

Eirik was thrown back so fast that he didn't even have time to be shocked. He felt wooden boards crack against his back, but many of them painfully still held up against his weight. Rising up, he saw that he had been thrown backwards into one of the towers. He looked back and saw that his enemy was pulling himself out of an aspen tree. Suddenly he drew out his bow and sent an arrow whistling towards Eirik. The shot hit him in the shoulder, but he painfully drew out his great-sword and ran towards him before he could fit another arrow into the string.

"Who the hell are you?" Eirik repeated.

"I think I should be asking you the same question," the Cyrodilian sneered. "I didn't think an illiterate brute could learn something like that. I wonder how much your precious Ulfric paid to learn the shout that killed the High King?"

"You're the one," Eirik said, gripping his sword painfully with both hands. "You sent those Dunmer cultists after me."

"Me?" scoffed the Cyrodilian. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was you. But I guess _your_ people don't associate with anyone who's not Nord, am I right?"

"What do you know about me?"

"Every thing worth knowing," he retorted. "Which is fucking boring, by the way."

"Tell me who you are," Eirik said again.

"You sound like a child, saying the same thing over and over again," the Cyrodilian laughed.

"You seem to know so much about me, I want to know who you are."

"Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?" he turned away and started walking away.

"Don't you walk away from me!" Eirik replied, following after him.

"What's that?" the Cyrodilian replied, turning about with one hand cupped over his ear. "I can't hear you. Maybe you should take Ulfric Stormcloak's cock out of your mouth before you speak!"

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted. The Imperial was thrown off his feet and tossed back several yards, hitting a large rock. Eirik drew out his sword and ran the rest of the way, towering over the fallen Imperial with sword at his throat. "Tell me who you are or I'll rip that tongue out of your mouth with my bare hands!"

"You have no idea what you've done!" he laughed. "Watch your back, Stormcloak, because I won't forget this insult. One of these nights, when you're not looking, I'm gonna put a knife in your back."

"Tell me now!"

"Fine," the Imperial sneered. "My name is Flavius Crixus, Imperial Legate and bearer of the gift of Akatosh, or in the vulgar tongue of you Nords, Dragonborn."

* * *

**(AN: Omg, another Dragonborn! And, here's a question for you: who shouted first?)**

**(-sigh- That took a while to get out, and it could have gone on longer. But don't worry,the next chapter will be much longer. What think you of Crixus? He is everything that Eirik is not: Imperial, both from Cyrodiil and a supporter of the Empire, Talos-basher [as we shall soon see], foul-mouthed, modeled after the Sam Worthington and Jason Statham douche-bag anti-heroes, friend of the Thieves Guild. Needless to say, I think you'll love him.)**


	28. Enemy of My Enemy

**(AN: So here's the new chapter. Don't worry, Crixus has many more admirable traits that will make you all fall in love with this anti-hero who is nevertheless needful to what will happen later on in the story.)**

**(Reviews...well, you can't win them all, but honestly? Have you not played the _Dragonborn_ expansion? The entire premise is that there is a second Dragonborn besides the player. And what the hell? You never reviewed any of the chapters until now, I never even saw a "new follower" for this story from you, and believe me, I check my inbox all the time. I call complete and utter bullshit on your hipster-ass ['omg, i liked your story _before_ you brought in another Dragonborn'] and ask you to kindly gtfo.)**

**(In other news...yes, _Cyrus Dragonhunter_, I have been reading your reviews. I guess I was being naughty by not saying anything outright, but I wanted it to be a bit of a surprise. Oh well, I still have your ideas and might just use them later on down the line [-wink-]. Just wait, they might part for a while, but Crixus will _definitely_ be coming back. While not all Cyrodilians are as such [Adrianne Avenicci, who has met Eirik already, though hasn't been introduced...yet, is one], there is a book in _Oblivion_, which my brother had a field day over, which described the Nords as mead-soaked, illiterate apes rolling about in the dirt, swinging swords. For the life of me, I can't think of it's name: I'll have to ask my brother. Like Crixus [his DB in _Skyrim_], he hates the Stormcloaks and got quite a kick out of the book's depiction of the Nord people. Lol, and no, I didn't make it that easy. In the last chapter, the malachite got stolen, but I won't say who did it, because that would be telling.)**

* * *

**Enemy of My Enemy  
**

"Bullshit," Eirik replied.

"Why?" Crixus laughed. "Did you really think you were the only one? Typical Nordic ignorance!"

"How could there be more than one Dragonborn?" Eirik asked.

"By the cock of Molag Bal!" Crixus exclaimed. "You Nords are dense!"

"What are you getting at?"

"Those Dunmer cultists," Crixus began. "They attacked you, called you the false Dragonborn. Obviously there's another one out there!"

"How do you know?"

"I've been following you since Whiterun," he said, then rose to his feet without asking for permission or even acknowledging Eirik's sword. "Now piss off! I've already told you more than enough."

"I'm not through with you!"

"Well, I'm through with _you_," Crixus stated. He threw his hood back over his head and walked off down the hill. Eirik ran after him, but he ran faster and was soon lost in the trees.

"Coward!" Eirik shouted. "Are you afraid to face me in honest combat?"

"Honest?" a voice called out from the woods. "Like the way your Ulfric shouted High King Torygg apart with the _Thu'um_?"

Eirik halted. He had heard the rumors of the death of the High King, but this was news to him.

"A Nord may challenge another for right of leadership," Eirik reasoned.

"You Nords and your backwards customs," laughed the voice. It was Crixus.

"Wait!" Eirik shouted. "I can help you!"

"I work alone," he replied.

"Those cultists might return," Eirik said. "They ambushed me in the mountains, during a dragon attack."

"I know, troll-bait! I was watching you from the hills!"

"Why didn't you help me?"

"Please, an Imperial Legate help a rebel?" Crixus scoffed. "They'd have my head back in Cyrodiil! Besides, isn't there something in your 'traditions' that says a true warrior is supposed to be self-sufficient, eh? Do things on his own, without anyone's help? So what does that make me, Nord? Does that make me better than you?"

"I demand a truce!"

"You are in no position to demand anything!"

"Listen, when they come again, it will be much easier to defend ourselves if we work together!"

There was silence for a moment, not a sound of foot-fall or crunch of leaves and twigs. Eirik looked out at the woods, sword ready, but was starting to fear that he had lost him for good. He sheathed his sword, then felt a cold steel blade upon his throat.

"Let's pretend I've reconsidered," Crixus' voice hissed in Eirik's ear. "We go after the cultists, but I don't take orders from you. If I see you around those mead-soaked Ulfric Stormcloak-lackeys, well, then I'll have to do my duty as a loyal citizen of the Empire, won't I? Is that plain enough for you to understand, or do I have to speak slowly?"

"I understand," Eirik replied.

The knife was removed, then Eirik heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Crixus making his way back to Riften. He followed after him, passing the guards as they both entered the town. From the Bunkhouse, he saw Mjoll running towards them, black soot over her face.

"Mjoll, what happened?" Eirik asked.

"We were just able to get the fires out," she began. "But Haelga's Bunkhouse has taken too much damage. It might not be..." She then turned to Crixus and her eyes exploded in their sockets. Her hand reached for her ax and she drew it out. Crixus responded by drawing out his dagger as well.

"Wait, stop!" Eirik said. "He won't harm us!"

"I saw him in the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood," Mjoll replied. "He's been following us since Whiterun."

"Smart b*tch," Crixus replied.

"Don't call me a b*tch, you Imperial dog!" Mjoll said, taking a step closer. "I am _no_ man's b*tch!"

"Looks like I hit close to the mark," Crixus smirked. "So what's your story, fattie? Raped by bandits?" Suddenly, Mjoll struck him with her fist.

"Watch your tongue!" she growled.

"Or what?" Crixus replied.

"Eirik, how could you bring him here?" she asked. "He's not to be trusted."

"He killed the dragon..."

"He's a member of the Imperial Legion _and_ I saw him associating with the Thieves Guild!"

"It's only smart, working with them," Crixus said. "The Thieves Guild are the power in this part of Skyrim." He looked up at Mjoll's angry expression. "What? Are you _really _that dense to think they're the bad guys?"

"They've been terrorizing the good people of Riften!"

"They keep the order around here," Crixus said. "The Thieves Guild must always be, there's no way around it. Now how much is it going to cost me, cow, huh? Give you a sound fucking..."

"Why you impudent dog!"

"Hey!" a voice shouted. Eirik and Mjoll turned about and saw one of the guards approaching. "You know the law around here. No brawling or fighting in the streets, or I'll throw your asses in the Riften jail. Is that understood?"

"Quite right, soldier," Crixus exclaimed. "Promise we won't do anything of the sort again!"

Eirik saw the guard give them suspicious looks, but near at hand, he heard Mjoll groaning. Turning about, he saw Crixus had stuck a knife in her neck while his attention had been on the guard.

"No one hits me, b*tch!" he whispered into his ear as he held her body, as if to gently carry it down to the ground.

Just then, Mjoll's hand came back and struck him in the face again. Then she followed up with a knee to his groin, sending him to the wooden streets of the town. With a loud groan, she tore the knife from her neck and threw it at him.

"Don't _ever_ call me a b*tch again!" she ordered.

When Crixus got up off the ground, dusting his clothes, he wouldn't look at Mjoll the same way. Eirik noted that he looked at her the same way as the Argonians and Khajiit he had met with in his journeys: to wit, with fear and distrust at the very best and silent hatred at the worst. He also saw that Crixus kept his hand on the hilt of his knife.

"Would you mind explaining yourself?" Eirik asked.

"Fuck off, _Nord_." Crixus replied calmly. "I get what I want and don't have to answer to anyone!" He raised an eyebrow at Eirik. "Can you honestly tell me you never thought about fucking her, even once?"

"I am standing right here," Mjoll stated. "And I will _not_ be spoken of as though I were a slave, or-or some piece of meat!"

Crixus rolled his eyes. "So, let's find someplace where we can talk without a lot of people watching us."

"You're not going to Aerin's house," Mjoll said, crossing her arms.

"I think we should leave that decision to Aerin,"

"I won't associate with rabble who are friends of the Thieves Guild," Mjoll said. She gave Eirik a scathing look. "You can find me in Aerin's house when you're done with..." She looked over at Crixus in disgust. "..._him_." She then turned about and walked away.

"Quite a mouth, that one," Crixus said as she was walking away. "I think I know how to keep her mouth busy. Although, she does have a nice arse."

"Can you honestly think of nothing else?" Eirik asked.

"What?" Crixus smirked. "Life's too short not to enjoy it. By the thousand arms of Hermaeus Mora, I thought you Nords were all about getting shit-faced and fucking b*tches left, right and center!"

"I'm a woodsman," Eirik replied. "Doing my duty is enough for me."

The Imperial snorted. "Duty, that's certainly fine coming off one's tongue, but it doesn't fill your belly or put a wench in your bed."

Eirik sighed, then made his way down the road. Behind walked Crixus, who looked quite disturbed with the Nord.

"Don't tell me you're one of those idiots who believe in that honor bullshit!"

"What good is a man's life if he does not devote it to the service of others?"

"Very good, I'll have you know," Crixus retorted, now at Eirik's left hand side. "Honor is for the weak and morals are for ignorant fools who don't live in the real world."

Eirik said nothing as he looked around him, seeing many of the poor, miserable, starving people of Riften lining the streets. It reminded him of the Ratways, and yet this was on the upper levels, in broad daylight.

"What about those who can't help themselves?" Eirik asked.

There was no answer, and for a moment, Eirik thought that he had delivered a convincing argument to the Imperial. But then he halted, and noticed that Crixus wasn't following him. He looked this way and that, but saw nothing. He took a few steps back, and then noticed something that angered him. Against one of the walls of the tall, stave-structured temple in Riften, dedicated to the Mara the Mother-goddess, he saw Crixus, standing with his face towards the wall: a dark stain appeared on the wood of the temple.

"Flavius!" Eirik hissed, running over to his side. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I needed to piss," he replied.

"But why here?"

"What better place than this shit-hole?" Crixus asked, as he readjusted his trousers, then wiped his hands on his jacket. He then spat on the temple walls and walked away.

"Have you no respect for the Divines?" Eirik asked.

"A god that can die is not worthy of _my_ worship," Crixus replied. "Those precious Eight..."

"Nine." Eirik corrected.

"Eight, nine, I don't give a fuck!" Crixus shouted. "They can die, which makes them weak, pathetic, impotent! And your precious Talos wasn't that good a man in life either: a murderer, liar and traitor. Typical Nord."

"I've had enough with your attacks against my people!" Eirik replied.

"I've had enough with you stupid Nords!" Crixus sneered. "I hope that dragon kills you all."

"What, by Ysmir, is your problem? What do you have against my people?"

"Because you're arrogant and pompous up your own asses for no fucking good reason!" Crixus began. "The Empire saved you from yourselves, brought knowledge, civilization and magic to this forsaken shit-hole of a country. If it weren't for us, you'd all still be living in straw huts, rolling around in the mud, worshiping fire, wind and those damn dragons!"

Eirik had no response, but would not show it, not before this arrogant Imperial. He looked down at the man for a while, who continued glaring up at him, then turned his back and started walking westward.

"We can talk in the Bee and Barb," Eirik said.

* * *

It hadn't really occurred to Eirik just how dull the Bee and Barb was: there were no bards about, no singing or laughter. Maybe there would be a few people so drunk that they cared no longer for the troubles that plagued Riften and were sluggishly slurring their way through verses of old songs they remembered from way back when, but these were few and far between. Many of the people here were so beat down that they had no time for mirth.

At the far end of the room, Eirik and Crixus found a seat and ordered drinks. Crixus purchased a bottle of Black-Briar mead, which he drank from periodically. Eirik said nothing from his tankard.

"So, your behavior aside," Eirik began. "You said something about meeting those cultists I met at Arcwind Point."

"Aye," Crixus replied, after finishing his draught. "Eighteenth of Last Seed, I was in Solitude, reporting to the legate on my journey here. I was walking streets and suddenly these Dunmer in robes show up. Asked me if I was Dragonborn, or something. I told 'em yes, mostly to see what would happen: then they attacked me."

"You didn't know that they were after you?"

"I had to ask around," Crixus said. "Hadvar told me about the local superstitions, what they called one with the Blessing of Akatosh."

"And you found a note?"

"Mhmm," Crixus replied, mouth wrapped around the bottle. He placed it down. "Was making plans when I got..." He paused, giving Eirik a suspicious stare.

"Go on."

"Look, I told you all I know," he said. "If you _really _want to follow me into Solstheim, go right ahead. I can get there from Solitude, you from your precious Windhelm, and we can meet in Raven Rock. Don't take too long, though. Before the month is out, some people in Riften are gonna catch it hot."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," Crixus said. "Just go back to that fat b*tch of yours and get out of Riften double quick. Don't want you dying in the cross-fire, now, do we?" He smirked, then left the inn, leaving Eirik to pay for both of them. But he wasn't done with him, not by a long shot. After throwing a few gold septims on the bar before Kee-Rava, he ran outside and saw that Crixus was still on his way out of town.

"I saw you talking to one of the Thieves Guild," he began.

"Yeah? So what?" Crixus retorted. "That fat b*tch of yours is an idealistic prick, and she'll never get her way."

"They broke into Balimund's smithy," Eirik continued. "They stole his malachite, didn't they?"

Crixus turned about, his expression unreadable. "This is Riften, people get ripped off every day. Maybe with that Stormcloak-supporting b*tch out of power, things will be different. But I won't hold my breath for it: the Thieves Guild are eternal, they can _never_ be driven out of this place, and they won't be."

"I had a sword I was repairing," Eirik continued. "You know something about the break-in."

Crixus smiled. "All I know is that you pissed off the Thieves Guild. Your precious Eight aren't going to save you from what's to come."

The Imperial turned about and walked on, but Eirik was busy thinking. Yes, despite what Crixus might believe, Crixus was a warrior with a brain. He remembered what he said about the Thieves Guild and about going to Solitude. There was something else going on, but as of yet, he knew not what that could be.

"...like we have more important things to do," a voice said nearby. "Dragons swooping down almost every week, personally I'd say that's more of a priority than a few misplaced septims."

"I know what you mean," another one added. "Like what happened with Balimund."

"We have more important things to worry about," the first voice said.

Eirik turned about and saw two guards walking past him. Once they saw that he was there, they halted.

"No lollygaggin'," the first one said with arms crossed. Eirik said nothing at first.

"What, someone steal your sweet roll?" the second one asked.

Eirik stepped aside and let the guards pass him by, ignoring their laughter. As the laughter died down, he heard something that caught his attention.

"I heard there's been some activity up at the old castle," the second one said.

"I heard that too," the first one added. "The young lad Hofgrir hired to help him in the stables said something about that. The Dawnguard is using it for their headquarters. I've heard there was an attack in Morthal, which has got them nervous."

Suddenly, Eirik remembered the words carved in blood upon the body he and Lydia had seen in the woods of Hjaalmarch. Then he remembered the words of the vision he had seen, at least twice already: the night eternity. There was something else happening, something so important that this being, some kind of lesser aedra he knew not of, was making her presence known to him for this precise purpose.

* * *

**(AN: Interesting stuff happening, to say the least. As for Crixus, while he gave Eirik his first name as Flavius, his true first name is not yet known to me. Yes, I co-wrote him and I don't know his true name. He gives a new name practically to everyone he comes in contact with: but he _is_ Crixus, that is the only part of his name, whether first or last, in all of his identities, that has been consistent. And he will be coming back, I won't get rid of him that easily.)  
**

**(No, Mjoll isn't fat. She's not Hollywood model thin, because I think a warrior would need to have a little bit of muscle, but she is NOT overweight: you can't be a fighting explorer, walking the breadth of Skyrim and exploring all the places of Tamriel, and be overweight [sorry]. I suck at description, but thankfully, a moment might be coming up soon, so you might get a better look into what kind of picture I'm trying to draw with her.)**

**(On an unrelated note...poor Frea. Everyone else in _Skyrim_ has a category dedicated to them, but she doesn't have any categories. Miraak has a category, so why doesn't she?)**


	29. The Pursuit

**(AN: Wow, nice response. I want to thank you all for your reviews. As I'm now on spring break, hopefully more updates will be appearing on this story.)**

**(I want to explain Crixus' motivations, but then again, I find that sometimes things work best when there aren't that many explanations. There's so much going with Crixus that I could devote an entire second story just to him [which i just might]. Also, yes, not all Imperials hate Nords [i almost forgot to mention Aerin, who i'm endeavoring to make less annoying in my story].)**

* * *

**The Pursuit**

There was a sound knock at the door of Aerin's house. He ran to open the door, and not a moment had passed, but Eirik burst through and ran to the bed-roll that had been his, making sure everything of his was together.

"What's the meaning of this?" Aerin asked.

"I'm getting ready to leave," Eirik said.

"What, without talking to Mjoll first?"

"Did she tell you about that Cyrodilian?"

"Aye," Aerin nodded. "And she was very upset with you."

"With me?"

"You sided with him over her."

"I didn't side with anyone," Eirik retorted. He then paused for a moment. "What he said was right, every bit of it."

"We're not all like him, you know," Aerin stated. "Cyrodilians, alright? We don't all hate Nords. I wouldn't have taken Mjoll in if I thought of Nords the way this Crixus does."

"It's not like that," Eirik dismissed. "I...The things he said made sense in my mind."

"All I heard from Mjoll was that he was very rude and called her a...well, you know."

"He said the Empire brought civilization to Skyrim," Eirik said. "I wonder if he was right."

"Don't listen to him," Aerin replied. "I'm not much on history, but Mjoll's told me about the Nord ruins she ventured into in her days, and the things she said: amazing! You Nords have a lot to be proud of."

"Of what, a backwards, unintelligent daedra-worshiping people living in mud-huts?" Eirik asked.

"I didn't say that..."

"He did." Eirik sighed. "Just leave me be. I'm leaving and need to get my things together."

"Leaving? For where?"

"Haafingar," Eirik replied. "This Crixus knows something that he's not telling me, something that has to do with Riften. I think the Empire is planning to take the city."

"What?"

"Think about it," Eirik said. "The Empire considers Skyrim just a part of their realm, they already have a large foothold in the east and camps throughout the west, it's only a matter of time before they take action. And..." He ran to the window to make certain there were no listeners. In a town like Riften, one could never be too careful.

"Hmm?" Aerin asked.

"My huscarl told me about some of the things she saw and heard in Hjaalmarch," he continued. "We've seen Saerlund in the Imperial camps several times."

"Wait, do you mean Saerlund Law-Giver? The Jarl's son?"

"The same."

"I've heard rumors from the town guards," Aerin began. "With the right amount of ale, their tongues can be loosened and you'd be surprised of the things they hear. About him, they say he supports the Empire, but his mother thinks he's insane or possessed. Eventually he got tired of the court mage studying him and took a sabbatical out of the city, about the ninth of this month."

"That certainly coincides with the time we were in Hjaalmarch."

"But that's treason! Would he really resort to that, just because of an opinion?"

"People have killed for less," Eirik stated.

"But an invasion?"

"Crixus said something about people in Riften catching it hot."

"Have you considered that maybe he was lying?" Aerin asked. "He obviously saw how affected you were by what he said and guessed you were a Stormcloak and said something to play to your fears."

"Nevertheless, attacking Riften is a likely target," Eirik replied. "It's close to Windhelm and the border to Cyrodiil. Claiming this city would put victory for the Empire in Skyrim within their grasp: it wouldn't matter whether Whiterun is Imperial or Stormcloak, because they'd be able to strike at the capital of the rebellion."

"So you're going after Crixus to see if what he said was true?"

"Aye."

"Then take Mjoll with you."

"You said she's not of a mind to speak with me."

"Not now, but at least wait until morning," Aerin said. "By then, she'll have cooled down enough to be willing to speak with you."

"I don't think she'll be wanting to venture out with me again," Eirik shook his head. "Did she tell you about Grimsever?"

"Over and over, yes."

"I had hoped to have Balimund repair it," Eirik said. "But then there was the break-in, and I feel as though Crixus knows something about it and won't tell me. I saw him speaking with someone, Mjoll said it was one of the Thieves Guild, and then what Crixus said, about the guild angered on my account: the break-in was more than a coincidental strike. They took only Grimsever and all of Balimund's supply of malachite: there won't be any way to repair the blade, not here, at least." Aerin did not reply, whether busy thinking or having no response to give. Eirik continued.

"I might be able to find her a blade, but it wouldn't be the same," he said. "I remember her saying as much." He sighed. "I feel that her time with me has come to an end."

"I wish that weren't the case," Aerin said. "I remembered how happy she was when she left with you, Grimsever in hand." He sighed.

"What's wrong?"

"There's something I, uh..." He hesitated. "I mean, well, I had intended to give it to Mjoll, but, then you said about reforging it, and..."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's kind of difficult to say," Aerin continued. "I mean, it was difficult and I had to go down into the Ratways, negotiate with the Thieves Guild. She'd never forgive me if she knew, do you promise never to tell her where I got it?"

"What did you get?" Eirik demanded.

Aerin looked up at the stairs, then walked over to the dresser, where he opened one of the drawers up and pulled out the grip of a sword, covered in gold.

"It's all Vex would give me for what I had," Aerin said.

"Who's Vex?"

"That Cyrodilian woman, the one Mjoll saw Crixus speaking to," Aerin added. "She's with the Thieves Guild." He placed the hilt on the table. "If there's any way you can reforge it, I know Mjoll would be very happy."

Eirik halted as he looked at the handle. It was a bit long for a short-sword, and yet even as he touched it, he could feel the unnatural chill that he had sensed when he first handled Grimsever. Though not very skilled in sorcery, what little knowledge he had told him that this was more than a simple sword: there was an enchantment of some kind upon it. Perhaps it was just the cold, but there might have been something else, something of which he knew not, not yet, at least...

"I'll do it." he said, after a long silence.

"Divines be praised!" Aerin exclaimed with a smile.

* * *

Though Aerin insisted that Eirik at least wait until the morning, for the day was swiftly coming to a close around their heads, Eirik wouldn't want to have his quarry escape him so easily. Therefore, girding his loins with those things he had brought with him into Aerin's house, Eirik took his leave of them. Before he left, though, he told Aerin to tell Mjoll that he apologized for his actions and would return with good news. Though why he said those exact words evaded even him. He gave it no thought, for his concentration was on the task at hand: finding Crixus' trail, which surely, by now, must be nigh impossible to find, even for a tracker.

Already, as he passed the tall wooden houses of Riften, he could see the last rays of the sun golden-red upon the planks. Dusk would soon be about him and whatever trail Crixus might have left would have long been lost: yet there was no other way he knew of for getting the answers he needed. Once out of the city, he ran down the road, keeping both eyes open for any clue as to where he might have gone. Then he heard noises just down the road in a clearing three bow-shots away from where they had shouted each other into the trees. With sword drawn, he ran the rest of the way into the clearing, where the road passed through. In the midst of the road, he saw a group of men in the garb of the Stormcloaks, surrounding a carriage with weapons drawn.

"Hail, kinsmen!" Eirik greeted. "What happened here?"

"Who goes there?" one of the guards shouted, drawing sword.

"I am an ally of Ulfric Stormcloak," Eirik said. "May I ask..."

"We were attacked," another added. "Some kind of ambush, but the ones who attacked us were unmarked. It was, well..."

"What?"

"We were escorting money and supplies from the Jarl Laila the Law-Giver to Ulfric Stormcloak in Windhelm," the guard replied with a bowed head. "But then..."

"He attacked us."

"He?"

"Yes, he!" the guard replied angrily. "He took us by surprise, it's no secret to be..."

Suddenly, there was a loud roar that interrupted all of their thought and speech at once. From the other side of the carriage, he heard one of the guards cry out, and then his cries were silenced by the roar, closer and louder than before. Drawing his sword, Eirik walked to the other end of the carriage and saw a huge thing, looking like a blaze of gold, its bronze fur shimmering in the dying sunlight: a sabre-cat. In a flash, the beast had now leaped upon Eirik and he found himself pinned against the crowd, huge clawed paws swinging at him mere inches away from his face, only his arms upon them keeping him away from a painful and bloody death.

One of the soldiers nearby jumped at the beast. So large was he that he actually managed to roll it off Eirik. But that was his bane, for the beast turned on him and mauled him to death with his paws. But Eirik had not been idle. He drew out his great-sword and buried it deep in the side of the sabre-cat. It suddenly turned on him again, swiping him with his paw. Eirik was thrown back, armor bent and open claw-wounds steaming in the cold, northern air. As he pushed himself up, his hand loosened a large stone. Then he saw the beast charging at him again. With the stone in his hand, he smote the sabre-cat in the face, which stunned it for a brief moment. But that was all he needed. He lunged at it, wrapping his arms around the beast's throat. Dragged and thrown about, Eirik was dragged by the sabre-cat, banging against every rock and tree-root the beast ran against.

It halted its running for a moment, shaking its head to try and shake this nasty foe off its glorious mane. But Eirik was no simple man of the Riften guard, or even a coney, as the beast was so fond of hunting. Eirik struck the beast in the face with his fist, then struck it again. But the third time, the beast started catching on. It bit at Eirik's hand, but he gripped its right fang instead: it was a costly move, for the beast clamped its mouth over and over, crushing his arm beneath its smaller teeth over and over, like an iron shield smashing against a stone. Then there was a terrible _crack_ and the sabre-cat roared in loud, violent agony. In Eirik's hand, covered in the creature's crimson red blood, was its fang. With a swift thrust, he buried it in the sabre-cat's neck, then felt the beast collapse and its dead weight crush him as it crumbled on top of him.

He pushed himself up off the creature, then took out a knife, which he used to skin the sabre-cat. With his fingers, he tried to pop the eyes out of the sabre-cat's sockets: it was said the fluid of sabre-cat eyes could be used in alchemical potions, such that were good for healing wounds. One of the eyes exploded in his hand, but the other one was pulled out intact, and he placed it in the bag at his side. Apart from that, he was able to get most of the animal's pelt in good condition, though it stank like shit and dragon's blood. With the pelt on his shoulder and his body aching from all his wounds and bruises, he hobbled back to the road.

"Look at that!" one of the Stormcloak guards said. "He slew the sabre-cat!"

"Where was this going?" Eirik asked.

"I really don't think..."

"I'm one of the Stormcloaks," Eirik added. "I have the favor of Ulfric Stormcloak."

"I don't know," the guard dismissed. "This was a long overdue tribute from Jarl Laila to Ulfric Stormcloak in Windhelm."

"Was?"

"We were attacked, as you heard before," the guard added. "They made off with the gold and most of the weapons."

"Who?"

"Well, I only saw one man," the guard said sheepishly.

"One man," Eirik said in disbelief. "How many were you?"

"Seven," the guard dismissed.

"One man against seven?" he added.

"Three were dead by the time we realized someone was attacking!" the guard defended. "They attacked without warning, no shouts or battle-cries, they were all around us! Then when we went to secure the treasure, we saw that it was gone!"

Eirik grumbled. "You said you saw one man. Do you know what he looked like?"

"Oh, sure. He was all in black, from head to toe. He ran north-west."

It was a long-shot. There were many people dressed in black in Skyrim. Necromancy was more prevalent than in the other parts of Tamriel, and those who practiced it usually wore black. But he had seen Crixus in all black, and chose to follow up on this lead. With sword in hand, he walked out into the night, off to find the thief who had interrupted the caravan.

* * *

**(AN: Because you waited so patiently, I give you an action sequence. Hell, every hero gets to wrestle a lion: Herakles did it, Mjoll wrestled a mountain lion [close enough], so I thought Eirik needed to wrestle a sabre-cat. And he did it without using the dragon-shouts. I hope that's heroic enough for you.)**

**(He's on the road, so there's bound to be more violence going on, as I am aware that the last few chapters have been very lacking. Also, we're taking a break from Mjoll, until such time as, well, you'll see.)**

**(Okay, since you were so understanding, here is my official answer [hint: if i don't say anything, that means i'll use the idea]: I had considered making a central Altmer villain, one who might have a son or daughter with whom Eirik and/or Crixus might encounter. Because of how I'm planning this story [and can't reveal too much], the war needs to have an emotionally satisfying last battle, which makes me think that I need a main villain. I don't know if his son/daughter should be dragon-born, though. Redguard? I've already got a Redguard character who I intend on fleshing out. They won't be DB, but I still hope to give them some kind of interesting back-story/personality [can you guess which Redguard?] Orc? Yeah, there will be a supporting Orc character, but not DB [or will they be?]. As for the Argonian...that is just too easy to make fun of, especially since someone online made an Argonian DB who was the valiant defender of the Thalmor from the evil of Ulfric Stormcloak, and even ended up with Mjoll, and then you suggested a stupid Argonian...and I'm like, that's too easy to just make so much fun of! I'm thinking, if I do go for more than two, I will only have three DBs. Don't want it to be too easy, fighting Miraak [seriously, he can control and ride dragons. I feel that he can't be defeated by just one. But that's just me, there won't be too many DBs].)**

**(New chapter will be posted soon, so read and enjoy. Do I need to have more descriptive paragraphs? Is _Skyrim_ not being painted into your minds vividly enough? Review! By the Nine, review!)**


	30. The Pursuit II

**(AN: As far as how "bad" Crixus is, _le fou_, well, that's not even as much as my brother made him in _Skyrim_. Not only was he for the Empire, but he was for the Thieves Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the Companions, became a vampire in _Dawnguard_ and then to top that all off, completed the daedra quests. Now I've taken that down a notch for this story because some of them are incongruous with each other [werewolf vampires? Or an Imperial slaying the Emperor?], but he's still going to be the way he is. I can't give too much away, because I don't want to give away too much. But that's what's left of Grimsever: in-game, it has frost damage as its enchantment, so no simple smithy could repair it.)**

**(Lol, really, that bad? I've seen some worse stories, not just in the Elder Scrolls fanon, so I wouldn't call Sheogorath just yet [lol])**

* * *

**The Pursuit II  
**

For a whole night and day, Eirik pursued the general direction of the trail in the dark. It led him out of the Rift along the side of the northern line of hills, then plunged down into the Eastmarch. This was a strange choice to make, especially if he were on the right trail: the Eastmarch was Stormcloak territory and Crixus, obviously, was an Imperial, both by nativity and by enlistment. But then again, Crixus wasn't exactly a normal Imperial. He got the distinct impression that he wasn't just some Cyrodilian doing his loyal duty with enlisting. Exactly who and what he was confused Eirik, for it seemed that, despite his claim to loyalty to the Empire, his main goal was himself. But he knew things, things that Eirik needed to know, so he pursued him on into the night.

It was dawn when a tired Eirik passed the now empty Valtheim towers. It hadn't been that long ago since Mjoll and he had slain the bandits in this tower, and apparently no other occupants had taken up residence yet. Beyond, glowing golden in the light of the rising sun at his back, were the thatched-roofs of Whiterun. Thither he was going, for the trail had grown cold, and perhaps this would be where he might find some clues. With weary steps he walked down the hill, following the road to the tall, wooden city. It had been a long night and he had walked on alone throughout it all. There was no hope of stopping for the night, for alone he was an easy target for bandits, especially in the Rift. Furthermore, he knew that Crixus had a healthy lead on him, even if he had been the one to attack the Stormcloak camp and make off with its gold. He also had to sheathe his sword to keep going at a steady pace after midnight, which meant that he was an even more tempting target.

So he made his way down the hill from Valtheim, following the road that would take him back to Whiterun. While he was walking, he saw a pitiful sight huddled on the side of the road, shivering from the chill winds billowing down from the Throat of the World. In the early morning sunlight, he could see a woman sitting against a stone on the side of the road. He would have passed her by except that he saw that she was rocking steadily back and forth and she was crying. He approached her, but as he did, she whimpered and flinched, trying to put as much distance between herself and the newcomer as possible.

"It's okay," Eirik said. "I won't hurt you."

The woman did not reply, but Eirik saw that there were bruises on her wrists and her dress had been torn. He feared the worst.

"Who did this?" he asked. The woman did not reply. "Listen, I can help you. I need to know what happened."

She shook her blond head. "It's dishonor." she whimpered at last.

"What is? What's dishonor?"

"That a Nord woman...couldn't defend herself..." she rasped. "...and her honor."

Eirik had nothing to say in response. While he had not had much experience with women, he knew that Nord women were very proud. Many were as strong as the men of their race and some of them were required to learn how to wield a sword. For a Nord woman, this was the worst kind of crime possible and so much stigma was placed on those who could not defend themselves. Even to bring this up for trial before the Jarl would be a great dishonor, for it would make this, her weakest moment, public knowledge.

"I will bring you justice," Eirik said. "As best as I can, while still maintaining your honor and dignity. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Who did this?" he asked again.

"Two Imperial soldiers," she muttered.

"Why?"

"I was wearing that..." Her shivering hand reached up and pointed to the hammer-like amulet resting on a chain around Eirik's neck: the amulet of Talos. "They said I was breaking the law. I told them my family had been worshiping Talos for generations, they didn't care. They...they told me they would come for my family...then they...att..."

"Yes?"

"They attacked me!" she wept. "Even after I took off the amulet, they wouldn't stop!"

Eirik was greatly angered by this news, and held the woman in his arms. He would find a way to bring justice to this, and to save her dignity. He whispered his assurance to her, then rose up and went on his way back to Whiterun.

* * *

The sun had already risen over the tops of the mountains by the time Eirik reached the gates of Whiterun. The guards there knew him and opened the gates for him. Straightway he went to Breezehome, where he knocked on the door. They opened and the brunette-headed Lydia appeared out of the door.

"Honored to see you again, my thane," she greeted, then looked behind him. "Where's the Lioness?"

"She stayed behind in Riften," Eirik began. "Good to see you again as well, Lydia."

"You look weary, my thane," she said. "Do you need to rest?"

"Rest can come later," he answered. "We need to talk and I need a drink."

"The Bannered Mare?" she asked. "I was just there last night, but I suppose I can always go again."

Lydia stepped out of Breezehome, then locked the doors behind her. Together they then began the walk down the lane towards the inn. They met few people in the streets, safe for Braith the Redguard child who roamed the streets, picking fights with whoever she chose. Upon seeing Lydia, she said nothing as they passed her by. Into the inn they went and Lydia, noting Eirik's weariness, bought the drinks herself and led him to a seat in a secluded corner of the inn, where they could drink in peace.

"I assume you've kept yourself busy in my absence?" Eirik asked.

"Mhm," she replied. "I've been listening to the news that comes to Whiterun from the other holds. There was a minor skirmish in the Pale, along the Eastmarch border, and just yesterday, news came from the Rift. A caravan was attacked outside of Riften. Some say bandits, others said it was a company from the Imperial camp in the Rift." She took a drink from her tankard. "You were in that area, do you know anything?"

"Aye," he nodded. "It was the Empire, a small force with stealth. The survivors said they saw a man in black make off with the gold and weapons they were delivering to Windhelm."

Lydia suddenly tensed up. "Did you say a man dressed in black?"

"Yes," Eirik answered. "Why?"

"There was a Cyrodilian man in the inn late last night," Lydia began. "Uthgerd and I were deep into our mugs and he came in the door and paid for a room. He asked the bard to play 'Age of Aggression' and everyone sang along: people looked at him differently, as though he were one to be respected. Didn't seem like much to me: ill-natured, hairless face, his clothes were stained with travel and they stank too. Reminded me of..."

"Dragon blood?" they said as one.

"Yes."

"That's our man," Eirik said. "I met him in Riften, he's in the Imperial Legion. I think he attacked the caravan and made off with the money. Ulfric won't be happy when the shipment of gold and weapons doesn't reach Windhelm. He might do something drastic, and the Jarl, I've been told, isn't fully convinced of the merit of Ulfric's cause. If he attacks, I shudder to think what would happen in Riften."

"So, we go back to Riften and make sure everything stays well?"

"No," Eirik shook his head. "We go after him. Did you happen to see where he went?"

Lydia smiled.

"What's so funny?"

"I thought I had done wrong by not stopping this man here in the inn," she began. "But it seems that I can help you after all. This morning, I was walking outside of Breezehome when he galloped past me. I ran to the battlements and saw him going westward, across the plains."

Eirik leaned over, seized Lydia's face with his hands and kissed her on the mouth. "Praise the gods for you, Lydia huscarl!"

"Uh, what?" she asked in surprised perplexity.

"I've found his trail again!" Eirik said happily. "I'll buy another horse from the stables and be after him in no time!"

"But you're exhausted, you need to rest."

Eirik laughed, but then halted as he saw something at the bar. There were two Imperial soldiers standing at the bar, talking to Hulda the barkeep. One of the Imperials was holding an amulet in his hand, which he held up during the discussion as though it were a trophy. Eirik then realized that this was no ordinary amulet, but one that no Imperial would be caught dead having in their possession: an amulet of Talos.

"You, halt!" Eirik said, approaching the soldiers.

"Hey, why don't you go back to sucking Ulfric Stormcloak's long-sword?" one of the soldiers replied.

"I won't be having any brawls in my inn!" Hulda said, reaching for a sword hidden beneath the bar.

"Imperial business, Nord," the other soldier snapped, then turned to Eirik, brandishing the amulet in his hand. "So what's your story, long-shanks?"

"You think you're above the law because you wear that uniform?" Eirik asked.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I think he's had too much to drink."

"Julianos would disapprove of your actions, you worthless bastards!" He seized the amulet from the soldier's hand. "I'll see you hang for your actions."

"Oh, I see you met Gudri," the soldier laughed. "A rabble-rouser, another Stormcloak whore like you!" He pulled the amulet out of Eirik's hand.

"Do you deny that you had your way with her?"

"She's a liar!" the first one shouted. "Just wants attention, sympathy and a few coins for that milk-drinking leader of yours."

"Let's see what the jarl says about this," Eirik began.

"Ooh, I'm so scared!" the first one mocked.

"Eight, save me!" the other one added.

"Oh wait, now I remember," the first one said, turning back to Eirik. "You're too late, whitey. The jarl's already pardoned my friend and I, not like we did anything wrong."

"Aye!" another voice added. Eirik turned about and saw one of the last people he wanted to see: Idolaf Battle-Born. "Even if her story were true, no true Nord woman would allow herself to be taken advantage of. She should spare herself the shame of a public trial and kill herself: Sovngarde has no need for the weak."

Eirik reached for his sword. Truce be damned, Idolaf's words were uncalled for and he was going to make him pay for it. But then he felt a strong hand on his arm. He turned around and saw Lydia holding his hand back from reaching his sword.

"Come on, it's not worth it," she whispered. She walked off, with Eirik reluctantly walking after her.

"Yeah, that's right," the first Imperial soldier shouted. "Follow your woman, milk drinker."

"You just watch your back, Nord!" the second one added.

Once they were outside the inn, Eirik grunted in frustration.

"Why didn't you let me fight?" he asked. "I could have taken that traitor's head off in one blow, and stricken down those soldiers before they could have had the chance to defend themselves!"

"You were outnumbered," Lydia said. "There were five city guards in the inn as well, or didn't you see them? Besides, this is old news. I heard about it too."

"And you say nothing?" he replied angrily.

"It's awful, it really is," Lydia sighed. "But there's nothing we can do. The Jarl has ruled in favor of the Empire, and his rule is law." Eirik grumbled in frustration. "It's not the only time. I heard a woman in Falkreath lost her mother and father at the hands of Imperial soldiers, and the jarl there gave her no justice."

Eirik sighed.

"See? Nothing will be accomplished by starting fights, you'll just end up in Dragonsreach jail. Come on, let's head back to the house."

"No," Eirik shook his head. "I have to drop something off at the smithy first."

"Oh?"

"Mjoll couldn't come with me because her favorite sword was broken."

"Wait, not the one in Mzinchaleft?" Lydia began. "Not the one you and I risked our asses and our lives to find, only to have you poisoned by some damn chaurus? It broke! How by Ysmir's balls could that have happened?!"

"There was a dragon," Eirik began. "It broke when she stabbed it into the dragon's hide."

Lydia sighed. "Well, then I guess we need to repair it, then." She held out her hands. "Give me the blade, I'll see that it's repaired."

"But what about..."

"I know how much this woman means to you," Lydia said, rolling her eyes. "So I'll carry the sword to Warmaiden's for you while you head home and rest, but just this time."

Eirik tried to argue, but it was no use. Lydia had volunteered herself and nothing would have changed her mind. To his credit, he was able to convince her to both buy a horse for herself for the journey as well as let him go with her to Warmaiden's and speak to either Adrianne or Ulfberth about his own armor, which had seen quite a beating in this journey.

When they arrived at Warmaiden's, the armory that stood at the gates of Whiterun, the day was still high and Adrianne was busy at the forge. While she wasn't exactly very tall, she had Lydia's lithe yet strong body-structure and her skin was tanned with long years before the forge and working in the sun, almost as reddish as her hair.

"Well met, friend," she said, looking up from the forge. "It's good to see you again. You're someone who can get things done, I like that."

"I need something forged, Adrianne," Eirik said. "Several things, to be honest."

"Let me see it," Adrianne said, walking over to the workbench out front of the store. Eirik first placed the hilt of Grimsever on the workbench, then reached for his armor. Adrianne laughed.

"Keep it on, please," she said. "First things first." She picked up the hilt, examined the grip, then the pommel, and then looked at where the blade should be. "This was a short-sword, yet the handle is rather big for one. And it's broken! You don't happen to have the other piece, do you?"

"No," Eirik shook his head.

"Hmm," Adrianne picked up the hilt and rubbed the broken point with her fingers, then smelled it. "Malachite."

"How do you know?" Lydia asked.

"I'm a smith," Adrianne smiled. "I've come to recognize certain kinds of metals just by the smell." She felt the rift again. "There's something else here, I can feel it. Tell me, was this blade enchanted?"

"I believe so," Eirik stated.

"Yes, it was," Lydia added. "I help it the longest, I could feel there was some kind of enchantment on it: a freezing spell."

"I see," Adrianne sighed. "Well, I could be able to forge you a blade proper for this weapon, but it wouldn't be the same. It might reject the new metal."

"What?" Eirik asked. "Granted, I'm not as skilled in smithing as you, but did you really just say that the _blade_ would reject the metal?"

"Yes," Adrianne began. "I know it sounds strange, but there are certain rules about forging enchanted weapons. Reforging an enchanted weapon is usually done best with two pieces of the original blade. But as that isn't possible, the new blade would have to be enchanted before it can be merged with the hilt."

"Can you do that?" Eirik asked.

"Farengar might be able to do something," Adrianne began. "As far as the enchantment goes. But I have no malachite here in shop, so the blade can't be reforged here."

Eirik sighed again. "Look, thank you for your time."

"Any time," she replied. "Now, about that armor..."

* * *

It was mid-day when, at last, Eirik and Lydia had concluded preparations and left Whiterun for the stables. They purchased their horses from Skulvar Sable-Hilt, the horse-master, and then mounted up: Eirik's was a black mare, and Lydia's a white one with brown patches on its rear and front legs. They were both clad in steel armor, though Eirik's own armor was only rented. His own armor was being repaired by Adrianne at Warmaiden's. But he didn't think he would have many more encounters along the way. At least he hoped not: every dent in this suit of rented armor would mean more septims he would have to pay when he returned it.

"West, that's what you said?" Eirik asked, as they mounted up.

"Have I ever steered you wrong, my lord?" Lydia asked.

"I hope not," Eirik smiled. "West it is then!"

"Hope you can keep up," Lydia smiled, as she urged the horse down the hill.

"No need to worry," Eirik laughed in return.

Down from the hill on which Whiterun was built they galloped, then took off over the fields, their horses flying over the seas of grass with the speed of the wind and endurance untold. Before them, the waves of the golden brown grass parted before the thundering hooves of their steeds. Cold wind blew through their hair and upon their faces, enlivening them as they breathed it in through their mouths and nostrils. It felt good, riding freely upon the open plains.

After several hours had passed, they came to a halt upon the brink of a hill of stone, standing out from the plains like the shoulder of some giant of stone, in deep slumber for so long, the land itself grew around him. Just a mile or so off, in the distance, they could see the golden tops of a town of Nordic design. Behind that loomed tall hills of stone that served as the boundary of the land.

"There it is, my lord," Lydia said. "Rorikstead."

"And those mountains in the west," Eirik said, pointing to the mountains. "Those were the old border. Beyond them lies Markarth, the capital of the Reach hold. In old times, the highlands beyond the mountains were part of High Rock."

"Do you really think this Imperial of yours would go there?" Lydia asked. "If he's really with the Empire, he would be going north, into Haafingar. We should make our course due north from here: the mountains west of Solitude are dangerous. It will be easier to cross the Karth River in the north than here in the south."

"True," Eirik began. "But Rorikstead will be closer. We can spend the night there, ask around if anyone has seen..." He halted when he turned around to Lydia, only to find that she was nowhere to be found. He looked everywhere, south, west, back east, and then north, but he saw no sign of her. The only thing he remembered her last saying was Haafingar. Checking his horse, he turned it northward, and set off towards the north, calling out Lydia's name every so often. Her little detour would cost him precious time in the pursuit of Crixus.

* * *

**(AN: As I've said before, there are no good movies about Nordic lore [except for _13th Warrior_, but they butcher the names from the Beowulf story so much, it's silly]. But I was looking for some kinds of old fantasy movies to look for inspiration for this story, and came across _Fire and Ice_. Typical of a Ralph Baski movie...nobody wears pants. But I believe in pants, and so do the creators of the Elder Scrolls series: oh well. As for the story, there was something I felt parodying to a slight degree in this story, so that's what you see in this chapter, which I brought to an end around three thousand words. Yay, Lydia is so useful in this story, but she ends up being just as annoying as in the game.)**


	31. Wrath of the Reachmen

**(AN: Thirty chapters, hmm. I'm satisfied with how the story is going. I might go back and fix up some of the grammatical or egregious lore errors [i didn't think i made that many], but so far, it's going good. Definitely will have a higher word count than _Exodus: Birth of a Nation_. I don't know, I just want to write an epic story steeped in Norse lore, and _Skyrim_ is the perfect place for that. I try to keep it consistent with itself and not just say "it's a fantasy story" or use writer's prerogative too much. Oh well, you're only here for the action and sex. [lol, i'm just kidding...i hope])**

**(_Cyrus_, I just remembered that I have seen _Taken_. It was very good, and I recommend it to any and all. But, apart from that, I would have thought a Liam Neeson-esque bad-ass, such as punches wolves in _The Grey_, would have no problem wrestling a sabre-cat. He did receive a lot of wounds and I hope you've been getting my frequent use of 'exhaustion'. Fighting takes a lot out of you, especially in heavy armor and wielding a great-sword.)  
**

**(Oh well, the lot of you Stormcloak-haters will love this chapter, for it gets Eirik started on the sub-plot of the Reach. Yes, I know I'm starting to build up more plots than I can, presumably, handle. I will dedicate some time in the story for our characters to sit down and prioritize. Gee, I don't know...the first Dragonborn who can control dragons and take over parts of Oblivion from their daedric princes, vampires wanting to blot out the sun or a world-eating dragon who can fly literally anywhere in Tamriel, reigning fire, death and the end of the world upon everyone. See how tough this is?!)**

* * *

**Wrath of the Reachmen**

Lydia proved hard to find. By nightfall, Eirik had passed through most of the north-western hold of Whiterun and still found nothing. Slowly he was making his way towards Solitude, one of the oldest cities in Skyrim. If she had gone this way, it would be certain that he would find her here. Nevertheless, he was still very weary, having not slept properly since the nineteenth of Heartfire. At dusk, he tied his mare up to a tree, set out his bed-roll and prayed that the gods keep him safe during the night and he find Lydia swiftly.

He fell asleep almost instantly out of sheer exhaustion, but soon drifted into dreaming. In his dream, he saw the skies darkened, the blood red as blood, vampires ruling the darkened land beneath the tyranny of the dragons. It was the same dream he had dreamed before. When he rose, however, he found that all was not well either. He could hear the growling of beasts nearby, at least three voices.

"_Laas!_" he whispered into the night.

For a moment, he _knew_ that there were three creatures gathered in a loose circle around him: they were wolves. He had no time to draw his sword, for one of them jumped on him almost instantly. He barely had enough time to hold his arm up in place: it caught most of the wolf's teeth, but then it bit his gauntlet and broke a tooth. Thus distracted, Eirik thrust his knee upward into the wolf's belly. The beast yelped and he was able to push it off his body and rise to his feet. The wolves growled, but as Eirik rose up, he could feel something hot and wet on his wrist. Suddenly, two of the wolves jumped at him at the same time. One struck at his neck, while the other pawed at him with its paws and bit at his open wrist. Eirik flailed at them, trying to shake them free, but to no avail. The last wolf growled as it approached, eager to strike at Eirik's unprotected face. It jumped at him, and Eirik felt certain that he would soon feel iron jaws tearing his face apart. Had his warrior's trail really led him so far only to end here, torn to pieces by wolves in the dead of night while searching for a lost servant?

_Wham!_ The wolf was kicked aside by the loud neighing of the black mare of Whiterun. He still had a chance to survive. With one hand, he reached down to his belt and pulled out his skinning knife. This he dug into the eye of the wolf biting his left wrist, but could not bring it around to strike the one at his neck. With his elbow, he jabbed the wolf in the stomach, then turned the knife around and thrust it into the wolf's belly. It whined painfully, and Eirik felt his hand grow hot and moist as he tore the blade downwards, spilling entrails all over his right hand. There was now only the last wolf, who was trying to scare the horse away. His left hand dangled at his side, for the wolf biting his wrist had died with his wrist in its jaws and he could not shake it free. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the wolf's jaw and pried it open, digging the teeth of its upper jaw deeper into his arm but prying the jaws open just a little bit more. He pulled his wrist free, mangled and covered in blood, but otherwise still functional. It was with great pain that he drew out his great-sword and strode between the wolf and his braying mare.

The wolf growled at him, eyes glowing pale in the light of one of the moons, but Eirik held firm. It lunged at him, and he held the blade upward, running the wolf through as it fell upon him. The body fell limp, and he pushed it off himself as he staggered back onto his feet.

"Why are you here, mortal?"

Eirik looked about, wondering who had spoken the voice. It was not Lydia's voice, nor was it Mjoll's, or any voice belonging to a woman he had heard before: save for one voice, _that_ voice, the one he had heard on the slopes of the mountains at Arcwind Point.

"Hello?" he called out into the darkness of the night, feeling rather foolish. "Is anyone there?"

"Why are you here?" the voice repeated.

"I'm seeking an enemy," Eirik answered. "Look, I never had the chance to thank you for saving my life, in the mountains, but...I don't even know your name. How shall I give you praise?"

"Return to the Rift, mortal," the voice commanded, gently yet insistently.

"Why?" Eirik asked. "Is he there? Is Mjoll in danger? He-Hello? What's in the Rift that I need?"

But the voice answered him not.

Eirik then knelt upon the cold ground once again, cleaned off his sword, and returned it to his sheath. Then, with weary steps, he dragged himself to his horse, whom he calmed down from the fright of the wolf attack. There was no light yet, for morning was still many hours off. With one hand on the reins, Eirik walked forward into the night, following the cold north wind and the light of the moon. Either because of the attack or because he indeed had been fully rested during the time he slept, Eirik felt no longer the need for sleep.

Morning had finally risen and Eirik was walking onward, still weary beyond belief. For a while, it seemed that he was walking the breadth of Skyrim for no reason. He had forgotten about his duty to Esbern and Delphine, and knew only of his search for Crixus. Hell, if he spoke of his dream to anyone, no one would believe him. It was the stuff of insanity, the kinds of things one spoke of in hushed whispers, usually with the name Sheogorath added in fear and trembling. An unknown spirit or aedra speaking to him, for whatever reason he knew not...

It was then that he saw a horse riding alone on the plains down towards him. He stood back apace, leaving the horse unattended for a brief moment. There wouldn't be time to tie up the horse, especially if a mounted enemy were coming his way. Stepping back, he drew out his great-sword, clenched in two, freezing cold hands, and stood his ground as the horseman approached. Then, as he stood, he saw the rider checked his horse and stood there for a moment.

"Well, come on, then!" Eirik shouted. "What in Oblivion are you waiting for?"

The horse took off again, and soon enough, Eirik could hear the thundering of hooves. The rider was now close enough for him to see that it wasn't a man, but a woman: a lithe but powerfully built Nord woman with dark hair and a grim look on her face. Eirik lowered his sword, but his face was still set as the woman dismounted.

"And just where have you been, you despicable woman?" he asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, my thane," Lydia replied.

"Getting yourself lost again, hopefully."

"I always know where I am," she said, giving him a sly wink.

"Then you were shirking your duties, I see."

"I told you I was going to Haafingar..."

"And I said we were going to Rorikstead!"

"Won't you at least hear what I have to say before passing judgment on my actions?"

Eirik sighed. "What do you have to say?"

"I went to Solitude," she began. "I was buying a room at the Winking Skeever when I realized you hadn't followed me. I rode through the night back here, looking for you."

"Did you at least find some whereabouts of our target?"

"Nay, my lord."

"Then it was a waste of time!" Eirik said in frustration, then groaned slightly.

"What happened to your wrist, my thane?"

"Attacked by wolves in the dead of night," he replied. "They almost ripped my fucking arm off!"

"And yet they didn't," Lydia stated. "Now let's go, we should be able to reach Rorikstead by noon if we leave now."

"Very well," Eirik sighed, walking back to his mare and climbing back onto the saddle. "But you need to be punished for deserting your post."

"Oh, please, good master, don't punish me too severely!" Lydia said in a dry, monotonous tone.

"Are you showing me cheek even now?"

"What are you gonna do, kill me?" Lydia replied. "You'd be lost without me."

"I have Mjoll."

"You mean that paranoid, talkative woman who's sword broke in your first fight against a dragon?" Lydia rolled her eyes. "I'd shudder to think how you'd fare against a real threat."

"Enough talk," Eirik stated. "I've wasted enough time searching for you. I'll consider your punishment once we reach Rorikstead. Hyah!"

* * *

The small hamlet of Rorikstead was situated near the border of Whiterun Hold, which had once been the border of Skyrim proper. Thither Eirik and Lydia were riding, the hooves of their horses almost flying over the grass. The golden roofs of Rorikstead were shining in the noon-day sun, it reminded them both of Whiterun. It was rather smaller than Riverwood, which meant that if Crixus had passed through this way, it would be easier to find him. They rode up to the Frostfruit Inn, and tied their horses to the post out in front of the inn. As they dismounted, a large Nord with a mane of red hair approached them.

"Hail, kinsmen," he greeted.

"Any news hereabouts?" Eirik asked. "Have there been any riders coming through the town?"

"You came to the right place," the man said. "I help run the inn, so if anything comes through Rorikstead, we hear about it at the inn first."

"So?" Eirik asked.

"Well," the Nord replied. "There was someone riding west a few days ago. They were dressed in black."

At this, Lydia and Eirik exchanged glances.

"Did you see where they were going?" Eirik asked.

"Well, they were traveling west," the Nord said. "So they asked for directions. Not really much: this used to be the border of Skyrim, but if you're going to Markarth, your best bet is to make for the Karth River, south of here."

"Thank you," Eirik said, then jumped back on his horse.

"Wait, we're not staying here?" Lydia asked, as she began untying their horses.

"He has a strong lead on us," Eirik replied. "We can't afford to spend any more time waiting. If nothing happens, we should be able to reach Markarth by nightfall, plenty of time to find his trail again."

"Lead on," Lydia said.

They rode on without stop, going south from their current location. The land around them changed from the open steppes of Whiterun to craggy hills and mountain-sides of sheer, gray rock. Their path now sloped downward, until they had to dismount and walk their horses down the narrow, treacherous paths that snaked along the sides of the mountains. Here the going was much more difficult, for the ground beneath their feet was not springy turf, but loose gravel, that gave way easily under boot and hoof. From where they walked to the bottom of the hill was still quite a long fall, and if any of them fell or slid, there was no hope: the Karth River, at the bottom of the ravine, wasn't close enough to catch them should they fall. Perhaps being crushed by a falling horse would be a better death than sliding all the way down and being dashed on the rocks below. Luckily, the hill-sides were not barren of trees, as were the plains of Whiterun. These trees, most of them bare of leaves and looking quite dead, like the hands of draugr reaching out of the cliff-side, gave them some leverage on the way down. Nevertheless, it was still rough going down.

When at last they reached the bottom of the hill, they climbed back onto their horses and set off towards the river bank. The ground was still rocky and peppered with gravel, but they halted before going too far to the river. Many of the rivers in Skyrim were infested by mudcrabs, armored crabs the size of small dogs. Since they buried themselves in the silt and gravel around rivers, one had to take care around the banks of a river, in case they stepped on the backs of a mudcrab, which usually had rocks or mud growing atop them. Though they were not very threatening, they could be quite an annoyance.

As evening began to fall upon the Reach, Eirik and Lydia had followed the Karth River along its course. Its course had gone steadily north-west by slim degrees. The land was still rocky and mountainous, with high cliffs on both sides of the canyon in which the Karth River was flowing. Over a while, the mountains parted on each side and the river widened into a small lake, with a mountain of stone upon it. Thither they rode, hoping to see some kind of sign of their quarry, which they had long since lost. With one accord, they turned their horses into the river, careful not to step on any of the large rocks. Their feet entered the icy cold water, curling inside their boots, and slowly the water went up to their thighs as the horses swam through the deep end of the river. They shared no words, for Eirik was still frustrated over losing Crixus' trail. Lydia said nothing either, since she knew that once words were spoken, she would be doled out her punishment.

Once they arrived on the shore of the island, they dismounted from their horses, their water-logged boots dragging them down into a squelchy thump as they hit the pebbly shore. Looking around, they saw that the way up the mountain was too steep to reach by horse. To this end, they tied off their horses to a large stump of driftwood and made their way to the winding path that would lead them up the side of the mountain.

"You know, my thane," Lydia began. "There are rumors of wild men in these parts."

"I've heard the stories," Eirik said. "Still, we're been through worse."

They walked on silence for a while, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their boots the only thing they could hear over the gentle rush of the river below. Suddenly, Lydia came to a halt with her hand held up.

"What is it?" Eirik asked.

"Shh, listen," she whispered. "Do you hear that?"

For one moment, they both paused, listening to everything they could. Above their heads, they heard the noise of falling rocks. Eirik drew out his great-sword and Lydia armed herself with her sword and shield. The ringing of their swords being drawn from sheaths was the only sound they heard for a moment, for the sound of falling rocks had ceased. The two of them stood for two moments with bated breath, wondering what new danger would befall them. The wind began to pick up, first as a gentle whisper against the stones. It blew about for a moment, and no other sound, other than the murmur of the river, could be heard.

"We need to get higher," Eirik hissed. "We're at a disadvantage where we stand."

"They're still up there," Lydia whispered.

"It's probably just a rabbit or something small," Eirik replied.

"And if it's not?"

"We have no place to fight them here."

The wind began to stir louder and angrier, blasting them with heavy gusts like waves of the ocean. Then suddenly they heard the sound, low and distant at first, but distinct like the roar of thunder. Suddenly, a massive shape, the size of a small drekkar, flew overhead with a loud roar.

"Dragon!" Eirik shouted.

Under the sound of the dragon's roar, Eirik and Lydia made their way up the winding path and walked onto a plateau that was cut into the side of the mass of the mountainous island. Once they reached the top, however, they suddenly saw a group of about five wild men running towards them. They were clad in sparse animal skins with ornamental bones hanging on necklaces, all of them holding weapons that were made of bones. In their midst was a tall one, about as tall as Eirik, clad in a skirt of animal skins with a deer-head upon his head. His chest was bare, and there was a bloody scar over his chest, but it didn't seem to affect this massive warrior: like the barbaric Nordic berserkers of old.

"Death to the Nords!" a voice shouted.

One of the wild men ran towards him, with a strange-looking ax in hand. Eirik drew out his sword, while Lydia held up her shield, eying a wild woman with two bone-swords, circling around from the right side. The large one stayed put, while the two at its either sides started fitting strings into their bows. The first one swung at Eirik with his ax, but he held his sword across and blocked the blow. But he had no time to bring back the sword for a swing, for the ax-man had quickly drawn his blade back and was aiming another blow at Eirik's head. He jumped aside just in time for the ax to graze off his rented armor, leaving a shiny scratch on the steel plate.

He took a step back and swung his sword, but the wild ax-man leaned back far and fell on his ass, his head still intact. He swung down, but the scantily-clad barbarian rolled aside quickly and was now back on his feet.

"Die, Nord, die!" he shouted.

But if the ax-man had thought that Eirik's armor made him as slow as a pregnant cow, he was sorely mistaken. He rolled onto the ax-man, pushing aside just as the ax came within inches of taking off his head. With one hand, he reached up and punched the wild man in the groin. He rose up, then gave a cry as, mere moments after he lifted his left hand off the ground, an arrow stuck fast where his left hand had, for a mere moment, just been. But it was just the rush he needed to do what needed to be done. He turned back to his opponent, staggering nearby, drew out his sword, and dove it directly through the neck, a quick death.

"Get down!" Lydia shouted.

The Nord woman ran to Eirik's side, shield raised as two more arrows came whizzing towards him. With two harsh _thunks_, the arrow-heads embedded into Lydia's shield. She got to her feet and then advanced for combat against the wild woman she had been fighting with the two bone weapons. Eirik, meanwhile, took up his sword again and charged towards the large berserker and the two archers. He drew his sword back, ready to hack them down to the ground in one blow, then slowly take them out one by one.

To his surprise, he found himself hurled up off the ground and thrown in the air. He let go of his sword, so as to not fall on it and kill himself, but instead hit a large rock that kept him from falling the rest of the way off the plateau. Every hurt he had taken from his encounter with the wolves came flaring back up again with renewed strength, as did his new bruises. He pushed himself up and found that his breathing was painful. He reached for his weapon, but found that it had flown a good ways off from where he had fallen. Pushing himself painfully to his feet, he saw the large one charging towards him, bone-sword like a cruel, spiked cudgel, ready to paint the stones red with the contents of Eirik's head.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

The berserker was thrown against the side of the cliff-face like a tomato, and fell to the ground just as, overhead, the dragon roared upon hearing someone below speak in the ancient tongue of its kind. To Eirik's surprise, what he had hoped would have been a killing blow, or at least a severely crippling one, had no effect on the berserker: he got up as though he had been thrown from a horse and shrugged off being blown against the rocks like it was dirt, then turned to Eirik and shouted a war-cry.

Below, he could hear the berserker's cry being answered, as seven more wild men were crawling up out of a camp of hide tents and wooden platforms. Near at hand, the berserker was charging again while Lydia's shield was being pummeled by the wild woman. The archers had now their attention aimed at the skies, but Eirik had to concentrate on this one coming towards him. He rolled aside to the left, then clambered back onto his feet as the large berserker realized that its prey was not where it had been formerly. Eirik looked out and saw his sword lying on the ground just twenty feet away, on the edge of the precipice that fell down towards the river. He ran towards it and picked it up, then gave it a swing at one of the archers: her head went sailing off her shoulders, hit the rocky ledge with a sickening squelch that left a blood-stain, then rolled of the precipice and tumbled down into the river.

"_Yol...Toor Shur!_" sounded a voice from above.

A jet of reddish orange fire poured down upon the rock cliff-face upon which they stood, with little place to hide from the fury of the dragon's breath. It broke upon the stones like a wave of burning death. Even where he lay, well away from the flames, it felt to Eirik as though he were in the heart of the fire itself, the hairs in his nose singeing and burning: he smelt the acrid stench of burning flesh from the ax-man. He could also see, just barely in the blinding heat, a flaming shape flailing about in agony. His heart failed and for a moment, he feared that it was Lydia he saw, in the throes of a painful death in fire. But the fires were hot and he could see no more and raised his hand against the fury of the flames.

At last it died, and he dared to look upon the black-marked rocks of the shelf. The other archer was nowhere to be found, possibly hiding with the others and attempting to fight the dragon above. Lydia he saw not, but he saw now who it had been who had been writhing about in the flames. Before him loomed the berserker, skin red and black, cracked and bleeding, but aflame no more. Was this thing death-less? Even the draugr caught fire and were burned up, yet this thing felt no pain and knew no fear.

Then, suddenly, heeding the unspoken command of her lord, knowing his danger, Lydia leaped out and tackled the berserker. It was a bold move, for he was as tall as Eirik and his arms were at least twice the size of Lydia's arms: all told, it looked as though he were one who wrestled with giants. With ease, it seized Lydia in its strong arms and threw her against the side of the cliff. Eirik then rose up to his feet, sword in hand, and swung his sword at the berserker, severing one of its arms. It fell to the ground, impotent and lifeless, and the berserker cried out as it finally felt this. Turning to Eirik, it seized him by the neck with its left hand, which had dropped the sword it was carrying in the heat of the inferno, and began to crush his wind-pipe. Eirik could not breathe: even painful breathing would be better than this. He started to see stars, then his vision blacked out, yet he could still hear something faint, just behind him. Familiar cries...

* * *

**(AN: I've been looking over my stories and realized just how much I use one-line paragraphs. Awful, I know. And this story is supposed to be targeted at both fans and newcomers, so I need to be a bit verbose, especially describing these awesome landscapes.)**

**(Hmm, the first time I came to Sky Haven Temple, there were great numbers of Forsworn _and_ a dragon. Needless to say, I was killed almost instantly. So obviously I wanted to show how difficult it would be here. Forsworn briar-hearts are the number-one killers of me, aside from [formerly] elder dragons, ancient dragons and now those damn Boneguard keepers in, well, you'll see.)**

**(Yes, how dare I make a cliff-hangar. But it seems this story has lost interest to its audience, so I might as well make you care [or at least pretend to care] about what's happening. Don't worry, Crixus will be back [just be patient!])**


	32. Alduin's Wall

**(AN: Lore time, yay! I'll try not to mess it up)**

**(One point about Sky Haven that I think I'll have to modify for the sake of realism: if this place has been lost for hundreds of years, in a climate both cold and wet, why are there perfectly preserved wooden chairs, beds and chests in this place? I can see how those would be brought in during, well, what will happen here later, but not when it is first opened. I don't know, maybe that's just me.)**

* * *

**Alduin's Wall**

Suddenly, the iron grip around Eirik's neck was loosened, and the faint sounds behind him were drowned out by the roar of something near at hand. His eyes came back slowly at first, and he saw blurred shapes for the most part. Something large and dark was looming before him; he thought it was the berserker. Then his eyes cleared and he saw that, though horned, it was very huge, covered in scales. It was the dragon! At this close range, Eirik would be lucky if he were incinerated instantly by the dragon's breath.

But he had slain dragons before, and wasn't about to let one slay him now. He rose to his feet, picking up his fallen sword, and readied to attack the dragon. Whether the wild men below had gotten its attention or whether it could somehow sense the souls of the slain dragons residing within Eirik's body, the dragon turned about and began stretching its wings to fly away. Suddenly an insane thought came to Eirik's brain and he acted upon it.

"_Wuld!_"

With a rush of wind, he flew through the air, then came to a grinding halt as his blade dug deep into the dragon's underbelly. It writhed about in the air in pain, and then, to Eirik's fear, it began to fall straight towards the cliffs. He was no berserker and would not survive if he was bashed against them by this dragon. With a choice between certain death and only the fear of death, he let go of his sword and fell into the river below. It was icy cold, like being jabbed all at once by a thousand pins of ice, but his fall was broken. He then clawed his way towards the surface, held down by his armor. It was damnable hard, yet at last he could feel air filling his lungs again. Pushing against the pull of his water-soaked armor, he made his way towards the shore, not even knowing if he was going the right way.

But mere moments after he had finally crawled onto land, one of the wild women approached him. It didn't matter that she was clad only in animal skins, for her bony cudgel was raised over his head and his attempt at living would be proven futile. Suddenly, an arrow stuck fast in her upper chest, covered only by a band of animal skin and bones that couldn't keep out a steel arrow-head. Eirik laughed, thanking the gods that he had brought Lydia with him: for certainly that was her bow, giving him cover from the shelf above his head.

Then, in succession too quick for any human archer, another arrow came whizzing down from the shelf and struck one of the wild men in their small village of wood and skins. Eirik pushed himself back up onto his feet, picked up the slain woman's cudgel for a weapon, then ran back up the side of the hill to the shelf. Upon it, he saw the dragon lying against the side of the mountain, broken stone about him. Around the dragon, two people were making short work of it. One of them Eirik recognized as Lydia, but the other one was blond-haired and a bit shorter. Then Eirik saw, standing afar off, hands covered in blood, an old bald man.

"Hail, Dragonborn!" Esbern cried out.

Eirik walked over to the old man and looked at him in amazement. At his feet lay the berserker, but he moved no more. In Esbern's bloodied hands was something that looked like a small cabbage whose leaves were of small spines like the tongues of Hammerfell lizards. What color it was could not be told, for the sun was low in the sky and it was covered in blood.

"What?" Esbern laughed, seeing Eirik's bemused expression. "Did you think because I'm old I'm not dangerous?"

"I didn't expect to see you here, is all."

"I could say likewise," the old man added. "Delphine and I arrived here around the seventeenth or eighteenth of Heartfire and thought you'd forgotten about us."

Eirik looked over at the dragon's body, which was no longer moving, but started to smolder and catch fire, as it sensed the presence of the Dragonborn.

"You remember what I told you about the Blades," Esbern said.

"It's been a while..."

"Ah," Esbern grumbled. "The ancient Akaviri, from whence came the Blades, were ancient dragon hunters. While I might be too old and stiff to be hunting dragons, as you can see, Delphine can handle herself quite well in a fight."

"I remember Kynesgrove," Eirik commented, as the Breton woman approached, wiping black blood off her blade, followed by Lydia. Eirik turned back to Esbern and addressed him. "But what amazes me is how you slew that berserker."

"Him?" he looked down at the fallen one at their feet. "A Briar-heart of the Reachmen. Remove the briar-heart and they die, it's as simple as that."

"As simple as removing the heart of a live bear." Eirik chuckled. His laughter died as he saw one of the other wild men, her body burned by torrents of dragon's fire. "Who are these people?"

"The Forsworn," Delphine said. "Also known as the Reachmen. They owned this part of Skyrim for centuries, until Ulfric Stormcloak drove them out of Markarth twenty years ago."

"What?" Eirik asked.

"It's true." Esbern said. "However, there will be plenty of time to talk of such events later. We have a job to do, one which you certainly took your time preparing to do!"

"And what is that?" Eirik replied.

"We're going to the Wall," he said. "This is where it's at: Karthspire cave." He paused. "You should probably find your sword, the cave is bound to be crawling with Forsworn."

Eirik nodded, then walked over to the dragon's body and reached into its black, burning depths. For a moment, he paused as waves of euphoric energy coursed over him: the dragon's soul was being absorbed into his body. It slowly faded away, and Eirik found what he was looking for: a broken sword-hilt. With frustration, he threw it off into the river, angry that his sword had finally broken after so long and faithful a service to him. Lydia gave him her own great-sword, but he said nothing. He needed a new sword, that much was certain.

* * *

They then followed Esbern around the side of the shelf, where the mouth of a cave yawned before them. Delphine then removed from the sack tied to her back a torch, which she then lit from her tinder box. With this, she lit the way for them into the cave.

"You seem to be ready for anything," Lydia commented.

"We've been here for almost a week," Esbern said. "We've had plenty of time to get whatever we might need."

These two led the way into the cave, which had a low ceiling at first, then widened off into a roomy cavern just beyond. Lydia approached Delphine and the two began chatting in hushed tones, for their voices reverberated off the filthy stone walls of the cave. At the rear, just at the edge of the light's reach, Eirik and Esbern approached from the rear. Suddenly, there was a shout heard. Eirik drew Lydia's great-sword and ran towards the sounds, which led to a small stair-case of wood, onto a platform with a table, several chairs and a few barrels in the corner. At the far end of the room, Lydia and Delphine were subduing one of the large briar-heart warriors.

"You certainly seem to have things in hand," Eirik said.

Esbern nodded. "I shouldn't be saying this, but if these dragons continue to harass Skyrim, I think it would be proper to resurrect the Blades."

"But what about the Thalmor?"

"Oblivion take the Thalmor!" grumbled Esbern. "These dragons are a more pressing issue than any Thalmor or army of Cyrodiil or Windhelm. If only we had a few good warriors to join this new organization of the Blades, that would do nicely." He smiled in the dim light. "Your huscarl certainly seems to be well-equipped for this task."

Eirik said nothing as they followed Delphine's torch into a wide room with a cool draft from above. Here there was a stone staircase to the right, which they climbed one by one, Lydia bringing up the rear with sword and shield drawn and ready.

"This looks promising," Delphine stated, pointing up at something above them.

Looking up, Eirik saw, reflected in the light of the torch, a bridge that stood perpendicular to the ground on the other side of the room. Near at hand were three small pillars of stone, which Esbern was examining with care.

"Yes," he said. "Definitely early Akaviri stonework."

"We've got to get this bridge down now," Delphine said, then cast her eyes on the pillars before Eirik. He reached out and placed a hand on one, and felt it budge slightly beneath his weight.

"Don't, don't break it!" Esbern scolded. "There are ancient Akaviri symbols on these pillars. Delphine, hold the light steady while I try to read these symbols." The old man knelt at Eirik's side as he began to read the symbols, weathered and worn, upon the pillars. "Hmm. I see 'King' and here, yes, that's 'Warrior.' And this one..." He turned to Eirik. "Look at this one." He pointed to a symbol like two crescents facing inwards with an arrow-shape pointing downwards. "This is the symbol for 'Dragonborn.'"

"What's the significance of this symbol?" Eirik asked.

"Well, given that Sky Haven Temple was sealed against the return of the Dragonborn," Esbern began. "One would think that this would be the sign that is needed for this particular puzzle."

"Why didn't they use locks and keys like normal people?" Lydia asked.

"Come, Lydia," Eirik said, as he gripped one of the heavy stone pillars. "Help me move these into place!"

With Lydia's help, the pillars on the right and the left were turned into position with the 'Dragonborn' sigil facing towards them. Eirik then approached the last one and turned it into place. It was the easier of the pillars and once it clicked, there was a sudden thud of heavy stone.

"Whatever you did," Delphine said. "It worked. The bridge is down, now let's see what the ancient Blades left in our way."

They walked over the stony bridge and passed through a narrow corridor, filled with cobwebs, that snaked its way up by a few stairs. The tunnel wound on for several paces, then suddenly gave way to a wide room with a flat floor.

"Wait!" Esbern called out. "This doesn't look safe." He reached out and grabbed a loose stone, which he threw at one of the plates. A sudden gust of fire burst forth from the floor, then suddenly died off.

"I see a pillar up ahead!" Delphine said. "There's a chain there."

"One of us will have to cross," Lydia said. "But how?"

"How else?" Esbern asked. "The same way we got here."

Eirik nodded, then looked down at the floor. He noticed that the tiles were large plates, each one with a different symbol, the same ones he had seen on the pillars that opened the bridge. Looking about, he saw a winding trail of tiles marked with the sigil he was seeking: the sign of the Dragonborn. With careful steps, he followed the trail across the floor, fearing that at any moment, he would make a misstep and burn his foot in one of the fire-spouts. At last, he reached the farthest pillar and pulled the chain.

"It should be safe to cross now," Esbern called back, then ran with Lydia and Delphine in tow after Eirik.

Beyond the room with the tiles, there was another bridge which had already been lowered. This led then into another winding, cobweb-filled tunnel. Delphine's torch sizzled most of the webs, but Eirik pushed them aside: like Ralof, he hated spiders. Up a flight of stairs and then down another into a wide room whose roof looked out to the sky. At the far end of the room was a great stone wall with a face carved into it.

"Remarkably well preserved," Esbern commented. He then walked up to the face, and stood before a circular dais with many thin, circles carved into it like rivulets. "A blood seal."

"I see where this is going," Eirik muttered. He then pulled out his skinning knife and made an incision on his left hand. As the blood started to fall from his wound, he saw the place where the wolves had attacked his wrist looking quite hideous.

"Who is that face?" Lydia asked.

"Reman Cyrodiil," Esbern stated. "He united Tamriel under the Second Empire...Look!"

"That's done it!" Delphine exclaimed.

Before their eyes, the stone face of Reman Cyrodiil nodded as it was pulled away: behind it was a stone walk-way that led upward into what was certainly their goal: Sky Haven Temple.

"After you, Dragonborn," Esbern said to Eirik. "You should be the first one to set foot in Sky Haven Temple."

Eirik walked forward first, with Esbern and Delphine following up behind. Lydia ran over to Eirik's side and whispered in his ear.

"How did you guess that was what the door wanted?" she whispered.

"The bridge pillars were opened under the sign of the Dragonborn," Eirik said. "The safest path through the tiles were those marked with the sign of the Dragonborn, and Esbern said this place was sealed against the return of the Dragonborn. It was my guess that the Dragonborn's blood was needed to open the gate to Sky Haven."

At the far end of the stone tunnel, there were a pair of great stone doors on iron hinges, carved with the sigil of the Dragonborn. Eirik leaned against them and tried to push them inward. It went hard, but with Lydia and Delphine's help, he was able to push them aside. Beyond was a hallway of carved stone with many stone steps leading upward. Eirik was the first one up the stairs, which went upward for a great deal and were starting to take their toll on Eirik: each step was a heavy one on stone steps and jarred his steel-clad feet.

Finally he reached the top, which led to a wide room with a high ceiling. Light poured down from a crack in the ceiling, but as it was night, it gave very little light into the dark stone hall. For a moment he wondered upon what great secrets he had encountered, and wondered what was keeping the others. He turned about and walked back towards the stairs, and saw Lydia and Delphine walking up the stairs, followed behind by Esbern.

"Are you coming?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I'll be there," Esbern said. "By the gods, I wish I were younger!"

It took a while for the old man to climb up the stairs, but when he reached the top stair, he took the torch from Delphine and began walking directly forward from the tunnel exit. Eirik followed in his wake, looking at the room that was now illuminated by the light of the torch. There were tall pillars supporting the roof, reminding him of the great gold-capped pillars of the Dwemer ruins. In the middle of the room was a stone table, though there were no chairs or nothing of wood on which to sit down.

"Shor's bones!" Esbern exclaimed. "Here it is...Alduin's Wall!"

Eirik turned about and saw that Esbern had reached the farthest end of the room. Here was a great wall of stone, and upon that wall was carved a stone mural. The cuts were fine, like the work of the Nordic smithies with metal, depicting shapes and words so clearly, it looked as though it had been untouched by time. Eirik followed the old man to the left end of the mural, where he started examining what was shown here.

"Here is where it begins," Esbern said, as held his torch over the leftmost side of the mural. "See this, Dragonborn? This is Alduin." Eirik looked where he was instructed and saw a carving in the likeness of the black dragon which had attacked Helgen almost two months ago. "This is the beginning of the mural, starting at the beginning of time itself. The dragons ruled over the races of men, since before the first Atmorans arrived in Skyrim. They brought dragon worship to Skyrim, hmm..."

"What?"

"There were rumors of dragon cults in other parts of Tamriel," Esbern said. "But this wall doesn't seem to depict that history. This is concerned with the people of Skyrim, it seems. Like their Atmoran ancestors, they worshiped the dragons..."

"Wait, I've seen that before," Eirik said, gesturing to a carving beneath the emblem of Alduin. It showed a tall priestly figure wreathed in flame standing beneath Alduin. On his left were three men in hoods, carrying what looked like a dead king on their shoulders: on his right were three women carrying a dead queen on their shoulders. "It's on the walls of the barrows and ancient Nord ruins I've entered."

"Yes," Esbern nodded. "Doubtless depicting the way of life during the time when dragons ruled the world. The dragon priests, the one in the middle, were the tyrants of the people, who ruled in the name of the dragons. Then, yes, here it is..." He pointed to the middle part of the relief that showed a man with a spear-like ax fighting the black dragon. "...here is the Dragon War, when humans rebelled against their dragon overlords. Alduin's defeat is shown here as the center-piece of the wall."

Eirik looked at the center, and aside from the ax-wielding warrior, there were three or so other figures at the base of the relief, and above them was Alduin, falling to the earth.

"Who are those beneath the dragon?" Eirik asked.

"The Nord Tongues, the masters of the Voice," Esbern stated. "They are arrayed against him below, bringing him down from the sky."

"But does that show us how they defeated Alduin?" Delphine asked. "I thought we were here for information, not a history lesson."

"Patience, my dear," Esbern dismissed, as he continued to examine the wall, now moving onward from the center. "The Akaviri were not exactly straight-forward."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"Everything here is couched in allegory and symbolism," Esbern stated. "But yes, this symbol here, over the mouths of the Tongues: that is the symbol for 'Shout.'"

"You mean the _Thu'um_?" Eirik asked. "But which _Thu'um_?"

"There's no way of telling for certain," Esbern said. "Unless..." He shook his bald head, then trailed off into silence.

"Do you mean they used a shout to defeat Alduin?" Delphine asked.

"Hmm?" Esbern asked, pulled from thought. "Oh, yes. Presumably something specifically related to dragons, or perhaps Alduin himself. Remember, this is where they recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return."

"So we're looking for a shout, then?" Delphine asked in disbelief. "Eirik, do you know anything of a shout that can knock dragons out of the sky?"

Eirik paused for a moment, remembering when he had called the dragon Sosyoldinok to battle upon the fields of Whiterun. He had heard a name, something that...yes, that name, the name that even respected this dragon: Miraak. Should he ask about Miraak? The cultists knew who he was, perhaps Esbern would. But then he remembered, the shout had merely _spoken_ the name Sosyoldinok, who had come in response. He was not pulled out of the sky. But if there were such a _Thu'um_, then maybe...

"If anyone should know," he said. "It would be..."

"The Greybeards of High Hrothgar?" Delphine finished. "Dammit, I had hoped not to involve them in this, but it seems as though we have no choice."

"What do you have against the Greybeards?" Eirik asked.

"Hmph, if they had their way, you'd be doing nothing but sitting up on their mountain with them, talking to the sky or whatever they do up there. They're so afraid of power, they won't even hazard to use it!"

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it!" Delphine urged. "They have the power of the Voice, but what have they done to stop the civil war or Alduin's return? And they're afraid of you and your power." She sighed, taking a step closer to Eirik. "But there's no reason to be afraid." She reached up and took in her hand the amulet around Eirik's neck. "Tiber Septim, the one you call Talos, do you think he would have founded the Empire if he'd listened to careful old men like the Greybeards?"

"I've heard he wasn't as glorious as the stories told," Eirik grumbled.

Delphine chuckled. "The legends tend to exaggerate, and even a great warrior created many enemies in his time, why else do you think the Thalmor wanted to outlaw his worship?"

Eirik sighed. "Still, I have no reason to fear my power. It has saved my life many times already."

"That's the spirit," Delphine smiled, then took a step back. "The Greybeards can teach you much, but don't let them turn you away from your true destiny. You are the Dragonborn, the only one who can stop Alduin. Never forget that."

"But what if there was another?" Eirik asked.

At this, Esbern made a sound like a coughing laugh. "Another? Please, I'm old, not stupid! One with your gift only comes around once in an age, and only one!"

"But what if there were another one?" he insisted.

"There _is_ only one," Esbern replied. "And that is you, now let's have no more of this nonsense and come over to the Wall. There's more to be read."

"Esbern, what about this shout, though?" Delphine asked.

"Dragonborn?"

"I'll ask Arngeir what he knows," Eirik replied.

"Good thing they've already accepted you into their little cult," Delphine said with a slight sneer in her tone. "It's unlikely they'd help Esbern or me if we came calling."

"Dragonborn, over here!" Esbern shouted. "The third panel!"

Eirik walked over to the relief Esbern was scanning, torch in hand. Eirik took the torch from him so he might scan it more carefully. What he saw was what looked like a book-end for the mural: another carving of the black dragon.

"This was what brought the Akaviri to Tamriel in the first place," the old man began as he scanned the mural. "The Prophecy of the Dragonborn. Over there, wielding their distinctive long-swords, are the Akaviri, the Blades." Esbern pointed to three man shapes at the bottom of the relief, wielding blades with a slight curve, less so than the Redguards, but not entirely straight as the swords of Skyrim and Cyrodiil.

"What are they doing?" Eirik asked.

"They're kneeling," Esbern said. "Their ancient task fulfilled as the last Dragonborn contends with Alduin at the end of time."

"And who is that?" Eirik asked, pointing to the mural, which depicted a large warrior, sword in hand, charging at the black dragon.

"That is the last Dragonborn," Esbern said. "You."

Eirik was stunned silent, for he was now given what seemed like an impossible burden to carry: defend all of Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, from the fury of the black dragon Alduin, the World-Eater. Merely finding a proper end to the war seemed impossible, what with all the things going on around in the outside world. But this, this was a whole different level of impossibility; it was the duty of a god, not a mortal hero, Eirik thought.

"What will happen now?" Eirik asked.

"We'll look around here, see what else the ancient Blades might have left for us," Delphine said. "This is a better hideout than I could have hoped for."

Eirik nodded. "Lydia, come. We're leaving."

"Yes, my thane."

"It's a long journey to High Hrothgar," Eirik said, turning around to the others. "Might as well get started as soon as possible."

"If only you'd been of that mind weeks ago," Esbern grumbled. "There's no telling what terror Alduin has reeked upon Skyrim while you idled!"

"Talos guard you, Eirik," Delphine said in farewell.

* * *

**(AN: Hope you like that: another lengthy chapter that is, hopefully, filled with lore-friendly content that is consistent with what has happened so far in the story. The next chapter is going to have some action, though. We're out in the open, can't have too much not happening. This _is_ Skyrim, after all.)**

**(Please review, I miss those, even if they were criticizing me for leaving the path of sanity [i try not to!]. This will definitely be my longest fic, because records were meant to be broken.)**


	33. The Ultimatum

**(AN: Lots of stuff happening in this chapter, hope we can get it all down easily and such.)**

**(And I'll address what you mentioned, _Cyrus_, in this chapter.)**

* * *

**The Ultimatum**

The walk back down the stairs was overwhelming for Eirik, as he tried to wrap his mind around what he had just heard. It seemed an insurmountable burden, both on his mind and, for a moment it seemed, on his body as well. Then he remembered that it was his wrist, which had been gnawed upon by wolves. For a moment, he swayed from lack of rest and general weariness. He longed to rest, to sleep, to be at peace for one moment. But the troubles of Skyrim made it so that he could not rest, could not sleep, could not pursue what he would rather do: he could not return yet to Mjoll, nor make his way to Falkreath and visit his family's graves.

At last, however, he left the Karthspire cave and walked down to the bottom of the hill. There he found the horses still tied up and unharmed, thank the gods. Near at hand, Lydia began untying her horse, seemingly unaware of her master's weariness.

"So I guess we're going to High Hrothgar again?" she asked with a smile on her face. "Just like old times, huh?"

"No, _I_ will be going to High Hrothgar," Eirik said. "You will be staying in Whiterun: that will be your punishment for leaving my side and forcing this awful pursuit upon me."

"Just for that?" Lydia asked. "It's not like I caused anyone any harm."

Eirik turned about and showed her his wrist. "If this gets infected and has to be cut, it will be on your head. And the expense will be out of your purse!"

"Please, don't leave me stuck in Breezehome for weeks on end," Lydia requested. "Give me something to carry, please, I won't complain."

"That's enough," Eirik said firmly. "We'll need to set off immediately."

"But why?" Lydia asked. "It's well past midnight, and the climb down into this valley was troublesome already. It will be worse in the dark, with no way of seeing where we are going."

"But we can't camp here on the side of a mountain," Eirik stated.

"I was talking with Delphine while you and Esbern were examining the mural," Lydia said. "She said that she and Esbern made a camp when they first arrived here, since it would be quite a walk from here to either Rorikstead or Markarth. She told me where it was, I'll lead you there."

In the dark, Lydia could not see the relieved look on Eirik's face, nor hear the quiet murmur of 'Thank you'.

* * *

Morning dawned upon the Reach. In the tents that Esbern and Delphine had brought with them when they first arrived, Eirik and Lydia were waking up. They had not shared a bed this time, for the cold winds of the mountains had not touched this side of the mountainous island. By the rising of the sun in the far east, peaking out from the top of the valley, they had light which roused them from their slumber. Eirik immediately girt his loins with his clothes and armor, then opened the curtain of the tent. He walked over to the other tent and pushed open the curtain. Within, he saw Lydia, lying in her bed, clad only in her under-clothes. She moaned gently as the cool wind blew into the tent, then opened her eyes and saw her lord standing there.

"The sun's up," he said. "We should get moving."

She moved her blanket over her body. "Well, then, give me a minute, I'll be out shortly."

Unfortunately, as with Mjoll, a minute was hardly what she needed. Eirik had already untied the two horses and was starting to yearn to be on their way. At last, however, Lydia emerged from the tent, fully clad. Eirik gave back to her her great-sword.

"When we return to Whiterun," Eirik said. "I'll see if Adrianne can forge me a new blade."

"What about that other blade?" Lydia asked. "Mjoll's weapon."

"I'll see to that as well."

At last, they took to horse and trotted out into the Karth River. Then followed they the river until they found the gap they had used to climb down into the valley. Eirik and Lydia then made the difficult task of climbing back up the hill: while it was difficult going down into the valley, it was even worse climbing back up. But this time, they knew the way: Lydia, the lightest and nimblest of the two, would climb up alone and fasten a rope to one of the trees along the way up. This then made climbing up with horses easier. Nevertheless, it was still an arduous clime and dangerous as well.

It was mid-day when they finally reached the top. Here they saw once again the golden plains of the hold of Whiterun beyond. On the horizon, they saw a tiny dot, a hill far off in the distance, nestled against the highest of hills and the tallest of mountains: that tall mountain was the Throat of the World, and that tiny hill, sitting across the oceans of golden grass, was the city of Whiterun.

"Last one to the gate buys drinks at the Bannered Mare?" Eirik asked.

"I'll take you up on that," Lydia replied, smiling.

"No wandering off, like last time!" Eirik shouted, as he kicked the black mare of Whiterun into a running start.

"I was just about to say the same thing."

* * *

Evening was falling upon the hold as Eirik and Lydia reached the gates of Whiterun. They arrived at the same time, as there had been no detours or wanderings, so they decided that they would buy each other drinks instead. They tied their horses up at the stables, then went on their way into the city. As they were passing through the gates, they saw the large shape of Ulfberth locking doors to Warmaiden's. Eirik approached him first.

"Hail, Ulfberth," he greeted. "Where is Adrianne?"

"She went back to our house early," the large Nord replied. "To prepare supper and turn down the beds. Oh, she told me to tell you something: she sent the blade to Eorlund Grey-Mane, something about forging enchanted blades." He looked over Eirik's armor. "Looks like we'll be getting some good business soon."

"Indeed," Eirik said. "I will also be needing a new blade."

"All in due time," Ulfberth laughed. "The shop's closed, but I'll see to it first thing tomorrow."

Just then, as they were leaving Warmaiden's, Eirik saw Idolaf Battle-Born walking down proudly with two Imperial soldiers flanking him. They shot off uncouth remarks about Lydia and Eirik, and then Eirik noticed one of the guards. He had seen them before, in the Bannered Mare: those two were the ones who had attacked the Nord woman. He remembered how brazenly they had spoken in his presence, as though they cared not about what they had done. It wasn't right, and he had to do something.

"Lydia," he said. "Take care of the house for me. I've got business with the Jarl."

"Can't I come too?" she asked.

"No, this is your punishment," Eirik ordered. He then sighed. "Thank you for your service."

"Please, my thane, don't get sentimental on me," she rolled her eyes. "Good luck with the Jarl."

"I'll need all the luck I can get."

The jog to the Cloud District was uneventful, though Eirik noted the somberness of the dead Gildergreen, the tree of Kynareth standing in the center of the Wind District. He made a mental note to ask the priestesses of Kynareth about the tree, and then remembered that he had much more pressing matters on his time, such as the dragons and the war. He climbed the stone steps to the Cloud District, then walked up to the great doors of Dragonsreach, where the guards, recognizing the Thane of Whiterun, pushed open the great wooden doors.

As soon as Eirik walked into the hall, he was hit in the face by a slab of meat.

"Slave!" a young girl's voice shouted. "I told you I wanted it _rare!_ Shor's balls, you're as worthless as the last one! Proventus, kill him!"

"What is this shit?" another young voice, this one belonging to a boy, shouted. "This tastes like skeever piss!" Suddenly, a silver goblet was thrown at the Imperial steward, Proventus Avenicci, and hit him on his bald head. The steward ran across the hall, trying desperately to evade the hail of food the children were throwing at him, ran to the door.

"Welcome, thane of Whiterun," he said. "The Jarl is at his throne, if you wish to speak to him."

"Proventus!" the girl shouted. "Why is he not dead?"

"Please, Dagny, this is Eirik, the Dragonborn and Thane of Whiterun," Proventus replied.

"Another wanderer to lick my father's boots?" boy's voice said. "Good job!"

"He is an honored guest at the table of the Jarl, your father," Proventus replied. "Please, Nelkir, show some respect."

"Respect for a Stormcloak b*tch?" the boy shouted. He then looked at Eirik. "Bring me wine, the good stuff, and don't spill it all on your back either, slave!"

Eirik snarled as he walked down the hall to the jarl's throne. There he saw Balgruuf, speaking to a large, bald Nord and Irileth, the Dunmer huscarl. Eirik approached and bowed before the Jarl.

"Well met, kinsman," Balgruuf greeted. "What brings you to Dragonsreach?"

"My lord," Eirik began. "I come on behalf of a woman who has been wronged by Imperial soldiers in your hold this very month."

"What?" Balgruuf began, then stroked his long, golden beard. "Ah, now I remember. The woman in question was a Stormcloak, the Imperials were well within their rights to punish her as they saw fit."

"But they raped her!" Eirik shouted, and the hall went silent. "A free Nord woman, in your hold no less, and you did nothing!"

"Please understand," Balgruuf said uneasily. "Even if her story were true, I could not punish the Imperial soldiers, as the Empire would see it as showing favoritism to the Stormcloaks. I have sent them back to Cyrodiil with a letter explaining the situation: their captains will see to their punishment."

"You know they won't punish them," Eirik said. "Not when the soldiers tell their superiors that she lied about being raped."

"It was not an easy situation, please try to understand," Balgruuf said. "I acted in the best interest of Whiterun. The soldiers showed me her amulet of Talos and told me that she was stirring up the people of Whiterun to join the rebellion. They punished her accordingly, and if they had not, another way would have had to be thought of to keep her mouth shut. If she were imprisoned or killed, who knows what might have happened."

"This is not just!"

"Do you question my ruling?" Balgruuf asked, maintaining his calm, composed seating on his throne. Eirik shook his head. "Good, it would be unfortunate if I had to strip you of your title. We all must meet our maker in the end. I pray that when you do, it is with a good conscience."

Eirik was silent, then bowed before the Jarl. "As I do, my Jarl. As I do."

* * *

The night had fallen in truth when Eirik returned to Breezehome. He raised his hand to open the door, but the door was opened for him from within by Lydia. She ushered him in quickly, and he sat down in his favorite chair by the fire on the bottom floor. On the opposite chair, Lydia took her seat with her favorite tankard of ale.

"A messenger arrived," she said. "While you were away. He had a message for you."

"Where is it from?" Eirik asked.

"The Jarl of Windhelm," she replied, handing the letter to Eirik. He opened the letter and read aloud from it.

_From Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and, by right of combat, successor to Torygg as High King of Skyrim, to Eirik the Unblooded, salutations and greetings._

_Word has reached my ears from the front-lines that you have not met with my captains for the preparation of the attack on Whiterun. As the month comes to a close, our window of opportunity for the taking of Whiterun, a strategic move in the swift conclusion of the war, is swiftly closing. Furthermore, there have been rumors that you were sighted in the care of Imperial soldiers in Morthal on the night of the 9th of Heartfire. I am beginning to wonder if you are indeed loyal to the cause of the liberation of Skyrim, or if your loyalties have been swayed by those who see us as their puppets.  
_

_For the sake of the liberation, I have ordered the troops to begin preparations for the attack on Whiterun. I remind you of the oaths you have sworn to me and to your kinsmen, the true sons of Skyrim. As your oath-sworn leader and future King, I order you to return to Windhelm to be given your orders for the coming siege no later than the 1st of Frostfall and prove your loyalty to Skyrim and to the Stormcloaks. Failure to do so will be seen as betrayal and will be repaid with swift retribution._

_Talos be with you,_

_Ulfric Stormcloak_

Eirik sighed as he read the letter. If he had thought that Balgruuf had been arrogant in his response about how he had judged the Imperial soldiers, this had been even worse. It was nothing less than a demand, an ultimatum: fight or die. He crumpled the letter and threw it aside.

"What should we do?" Lydia asked.

"Alduin is the World-Eater," Eirik said. "He is a great threat to us all."

"And yet if you go to High Hrothgar, with the First of Frostfall five days from now," Lydia said. "You risk everything in the Civil War."

But this attack by the cultists at Arcwind Point," Eirik said. "These cultists and their leader, Miraak: I have to go to Solstheim. The cultist's orders said something about Solstheim, maybe that's where this Miraak is at, and Crixus said he would go there." Eirik buried his face in his hands.

"But what about the Dawnguard and the night eternal?" Lydia asked.

Eirik looked up at Lydia. "What did you say?"

"Come on, you remember the night we fucked," Lydia smirked. "The first thing we saw was a dead vampire with some kind of message carved in his flesh: something about Dawnguard and the night eternal." She then looked at Eirik's face. "You seem troubled."

With a sigh of wearied resignation, Eirik told Lydia about his dreams and visions, and of the woman clothed in light who spoke to him.

"I don't know," she shook her head. "It's not any of the _aedra_, but yet how you described her is not like the depictions of Meridia. Still, I've heard the rumors too, about the reorganization of the Dawnguard, vampire hunters. Maybe they saved our lives that evening, it would be worth looking into."

"No," Eirik shook his head. "I will go to Windhelm, if only to show that I am still loyal. If I return from Solstheim, my loyalty will not be in question and I will address the matter of the Dawnguard afterwards."

"But what about Alduin?"

"Those cultists said that their master gave them the power to control dragons," Eirik said. "They had one under their sway for a moment during the attack. If that is true, that Miraak can control dragons, then he might take Alduin under his control."

"Hmm," Lydia smirked. "Do you want to find Miraak to kill him or to take his power for your own?"

* * *

**(AN: I had planned this some time ago, not exactly in response to people complaining about how one-sided this story has been. While obviously I do support the rebellion, there is something that I would like to point out: Balgruuf isn't perfect, he raised spoiled brats, and that _is_ canon. Likewise, although one can postpone the events of any quest-line indefinitely, realistically, no matter what side you're on, they would get pissed if you waited too long.)**

**(As you can see, we will be going to Solstheim soon, and we will be meeting Crixus again therefore. Also, and I repeat what I said before, every one of the options to be prioritized here [and for the author as well] are cataclysmic in their importance. How would you prioritize between all of those?)**


	34. Return of the Lioness

**(AN: I've realized how little Mjoll is in this story. Time to bring her back in [and try not to give you all ideas about head-canon otps of Eirik and the other women he's encountered/may encounter in his journey].)**

* * *

**Return of the Lioness**

In Breezehome, the next morning, Eirik awoke from his slumber. His wrist didn't hurt as much as before, but he was definitely more refreshed. He longed to be up and about now, perhaps running errands for the Jarl or chopping wood for the Bannered Mare: that was what he did best, apart from killing, and he didn't like being idle for too long. Then he remembered what had gone on between himself and Lydia the previous night. They left no record, in case they were discovered by those who would seek to do them harm, such as the Thalmor, agents of the Empire or, at this point, the Stormcloaks.

Eirik clad himself in simple clothes, for there would be no fear of going out without weapons, at least so he hoped. Lydia he left in her room, for she would have to hold down the fort here at Breezehome while he went back on his travels. He stowed with him his skinning knife, but it was only an added precaution: he was as skilled with his fists as with his sword. Lastly, he took his purse with him, knowing what would most likely be happening today.

He stepped outside and immediately breathed in the cold morning air, a smile on his face. It was not as clean as on the plains of Whiterun, or the lowlands of Windhelm, where the last snows still clung stubbornly to the lands of Eastmarch. He could smell horse shit wafting up from the stables, as well as the earthen smell of a well-stoked forge. Adrianne must be busy working at her forge. Then he remembered what Ulfberth had told him last night and decided to make for Warmaiden's first. One way or another, he would be spending quite a bit of gold in this trip to the forge.

Outside of Warmaiden's, Adrianne was, as Eirik guessed, busy at the forge. She heard the approach and took the heated steel sword she had been hammering and buried it in the barrel of water, which sent up steam and a hundred angry hisses like of serpents. She wiped her forehead and smiled as she saw Eirik.

"I believe you have news for me?" Eirik asked.

"Good news and bad news, my friend," Adrianne began.

"The bad news first," Eirik suggested. "Might as well tell me now."

"I wasn't able to reforge that malachite weapon," Adrianne sighed. "Eorlund Grey-Mane is more skilled with enchanted weapons, so I sent the blade to him." She hung her head for a moment.

"It must not have been easy," Eirik said.

"I'm not too proud to admit when I'm stumped," she said. "Anyway, the good news is that I _was_ able to repair your armor. Now, just bring the rented suit over here and we'll see about your usage fee."

"There is something else," Eirik said. "I need a new blade."

"You've come to the right place," Adrianne smiled, raising her head. "And at a good time, as well. You can check the rack of weapons on the wall next to the tanning rack, or if you don't find what you need, you can ask Ulfberth inside." She went back to her work while Eirik began examining the weapons hanging on the rack. The only great-sword, however, was an iron one. These were heavier than his preferred steel blades: furthermore, as he ran his hand down the blade, it felt as though it had lost its sharpness.

"I'll take this one," Eirik said, hefting the heavy iron great-sword off the rack.

"Fifty septims," Adrianne added. Eirik fished out his purse and began counting out the coins when the Cyrodilian woman scoffed. "You could have picked a better blade. That was one of my first creations. No one's bothered with it in a long while and it's not even very sharp."

"I'm in haste, no time for long searches," Eirik said.

"It's your life," she replied. "The grindstone's over there, in case you have the time to sharpen it." She pointed to the corner nearest the gate, where sat her grindstone.

* * *

Ten o'clock in the morning and Whiterun was already a hive of activity as people walked the streets on their business. Braith was being hauled over to her parents by one of the Whiterun guards, for insulting Commander Caius with rocks and mud. Voices were raised in the shops as goods were being bought, sold and traded by the many people visiting Whiterun for whatever reason. Eirik, having sharpened his new blade, returned to the forge with his rented armor. He was now girding himself in his own suit, which fit him perfectly, now repaired of the damage it had endured. Adrianne and Ulfberth were examining the rented suit for damages. She had a quill and paper on which she kept a tally.

"Looks in good order," Ulfberth said, stroking his thick, black beard. "But there's some rust forming around the greaves, and this dent in the breastplate will have to come out. Five hundred."

Eirik sighed as he placed his purse on the workbench. It was not his entire savings, most of that was kept safe in Breezehome, but it was still quite a cost.

"If there's anything lacking," Eirik said. "My huscarl will make up the difference."

"Good doing business with you," Ulfberth said.

Eirik left Warmaiden's with his new weapon in its sheath and his old armor back on his body, in good repair. He was now back on his way to the Wind District, towards the hall that looked like an over-turned drekkar: Jorrvaskr, hall of the Companions. Nearby was a shelf of stone jutting out of the main body of mountain upon which Dragonsreach and the Cloud District rested. Upon that shelf was the Skyforge, the smithy belonging to Eorlund Grey-Mane, elder of the clan Grey-Mane and renown throughout Skyrim as the greatest smith. As Eirik approached the forge, he saw Eorlund busy with his work. The old man, seeing the newcomer, paused for a moment to wipe the sweat of his face.

"Hail, kinsman," Eirik greeted. "My name is Eirik, I was sent here by Adrianne Avenicci."

"Ah yes, the great-sword," Eorlund replied. "Adrianne's a fine smith, that's for certain. But this weapon goes far beyond even her great skill."

"Is it finished?" Eirik asked.

"Of course it's finished," Eorlund laughed. "It took me some time, since I had to wait for an order of malachite to come in from Windhelm. But I was able to forge the new steel onto the haft and with Farengar's help, this should do nicely."

Eorlund walked over to the grindstone, under which there was something kept under a cloth. Eorlund brought it out from under the cloth and Eirik gasped in amazement. Here was Grimsever reforged, a proper great-sword, shimmering with silent power, even as it had been when he lifted it off the floor of Mzinchaleft. It was a thing of beauty, a masterpiece unlike anything he had ever seen.

"You've done well, master Grey-Mane," Eirik said. "When next I return, I should ask if you would forge me a new sword."

"Aye," Eorlund grumbled. "And it looks like you may need it."

* * *

With Grimsever reforged in hand, Eirik made his way down the hill to the Plains District, then passed through the doors of the city. Down the hill he went and found his black mare, stabled safely. Mounting up, he kicked the horse's flanks and it took off. He had to arrive in Riften before the night fell. Down the hill he took off, as the seas of grass flowed about him. To the southeast loomed the heights of the Throat of the World, the highest mountain in Skyrim. Its horny crown vanished into the clouds above and its naked, stony flanks were blanketed in snow. It was just as impressive as when he cast his eyes thither on his first journey there with Lydia at his side, barely aware of his fate as the Dragonborn.

He would return, he told himself. He would be back, if only to destroy the dragon that had been plaguing Skyrim, his home, for months. But he could not return yet, he had more things on his mind as well. His path would take him first to where he should have been to begin with, had it not been for the unfortunate break-in.

He passed by the Valtheim towers well after noon, and found the secret path he and Lydia had found that led him up to Ivarsted, the start of the seven thousand step climb to the top of the world. This path, only wide enough for one rider to walk safely upon it, wound up the side of the plateau-shelf on which the Rift was situated. They had slain a sabre-cat on the way up, which was quite a feat, but he remembered more vividly the snow troll they fought on the slopes of the Throat of the World. It had been a group effort and he and Lydia had barely survived, freezing cold and barely able to hold their own against a powerful opponent. As he looked up at the tall mountain, looming over his head, he wondered if Mjoll had ever been up there. If she hadn't, maybe he would be able to recount the story of his adventure there over a cold ale and a warm meal.

The sun had already sunken behind the mountains when Eirik reached the top of the path, with the straw-thatched roofs of Ivarsted visible over the white-barked aspen trees. With that in sight, he turned dead east, then kicked his horse back into a strong gallop. Riften lay ahead, and he would be there ere dusk fell upon Skyrim, which was not far off. Galloping through the aspen forests, he heard an old crow cry somewhere in the distance, and though the sound of his horse's hooves was all that he heard, he had a distinct feeling that something else was out there. Behind each stone and aspen, he felt that things were lurking out there in the gathering dark. A wolf's howl in the distance gave life to his thoughts and fears, but Eirik did not stop. He was too close to halt now and engage anything. This was Skyrim, a land of danger and powerful creatures, there would be plenty to fight in the morning.

By the time he saw the tops of the town of Riften, the shadows were long and the sun was gone beyond the mountains in the west. Eirik rode up to the stables and found the grey-haired horse-master Hofgrir Horse-Crusher standing outside.

"Hail, kinsmen," Eirik said. "What happened to the boy who took care of the stables?"

"That ain't none of your business," Hofgrir replied. "Are you gonna tie up your horse or talk all day?"

Eirik grumbled, then got off his horse and let Hofgrir take her into the stable. As he was going, Eirik walked over and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. He turned about, giving Eirik a threatening glare.

"A hundred septims more if this horse is still here by morning," Eirik said.

"Whatever you say, it's your money," Hofgrir stated.

With his horse, hopefully, safely stowed away in the stables, Eirik passed through the gates as they were closing for the night. He walked down the cobblestone lane to the house that he had seen so many times, he doubted not that he could find his way there in the dark. He stepped up to the door and pounded upon it fiercely with his fist.

"Who goes there?" Aerin's voice asked.

"An old friend," Eirik replied. "I come bearing gifts."

The door was unbolted and Aerin ushered Eirik into his house. In one of the chairs nearby sat Mjoll, who was seemingly reading an old book whose title Eirik could not discern. She placed her book down and turned about to see who had arrived. Eirik noted the smile on her face when their eyes met after what seemed like months.

"It's good to see you, friend," Mjoll said.

"I have something for you," he said, removing the treasured sword from his back and unwrapped it in her presence. For a moment, Mjoll was stunned beyond words as she rose from her chair and ran her fingers along the blade.

"Is that..." she began. "But...it..." Then her fingers touched the blade and he could see her chest rise as she gasped in realization. "It _is_!"

Then, to Eirik's surprise, Mjoll did not take the sword from his hands. Instead, she reached up her own hands and seized his head in them. Then she brought her lips together with his and, for the second time since they met, they kissed.

"You're a gift of the Divines!" Mjoll said with a smile. Then she laughed, and the sound was like sunlight after a horrible nightfall, water during bathing, cool beer after a long, hard day. Any great boon he had ever felt paled in comparison when he heard the sound of her laughter.

"Will you come with me again?" Eirik asked. "I'm going to Windhelm, and from there to Solstheim."

"Solstheim!" Mjoll exclaimed. "That reminds me of the times my father and I were in Morrowind. I had journeyed there with him so many times, when I was on my own, I decided to go there and see the rest of it for myself. I saw Solstheim once, from afar, but it was difficult to see it under a cloud of ash at night, but the lights were out in the sky and it was beautiful!"

Mjoll continued rambling on about whatever adventures she and her father had in Morrowind or about the times she had been there on her own. Eirik looked over at Aerin, who simply rolled his eyes and smiled.

"Oh, but where are my manners?!" he exclaimed suddenly. "How far have you come today?"

"From Whiterun," Eirik replied.

"You look exhausted," Aerin said. "Please, spend the night here. It'll be just like old times, huh?"

"You certainly are a generous host," Eirik commented.

"Please, it's the least I can do," he replied.

* * *

Night passed swiftly, with Aerin and Mjoll sleeping in their respective rooms while Eirik slept on his bed-roll on the bottom level. But it was not as sound and fitful as Eirik could have hoped. Sometime in the middle of the night, he awoke upon hearing a noise outside. He drew out his great-sword and made his way to the door. He gripped the handle firmly and gently turned it. Upon opening the door, he saw someone in black standing before the wall of Aerin's house. With sword in hand, he walked towards the figure, who suddenly turned.

Something cold and wet struck Eirik on the face, and then he heard footsteps. But he wasn't as blinded by this as his enemy would have thought. He ran forward and tackled into something. It was squirming underneath him and grunting. But the voice wasn't the voice of a man. He tried to turn the captured one over, but they were too quick and suddenly he was on the ground and they were trying to escape. He swept the legs out from under them and then scurried back onto his feet. He reached down, grabbed something that felt like hardened leather, and pushed it against the door of Aerin's house.

"Alright, you scum," Eirik said. "What were you doing here? Who are you working for?"

"Go fuck yourself!" the voice replied. It was a woman, and by her accent, Eirik guessed she was Cyrodilian.

"Wrong answer," he replied. Laying two hands on the thief, he heaved her into one of the wooden support beams of the house, which cracked under her weight. He then threw her against the wall and seized her jacket before she could run.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he warned. "Who are you working for?"

"You Nords really are stupid, just like he said," the woman laughed.

"Like who said?"

"It's a stupid question," she sneered. "Asking a thief in Riften who she works for."

"The Thieves Guild," Eirik replied. "You've been leaving messages on this house, haven't you?"

"Look at the brains on this one," the Cyrodilian woman laughed. "Too bad they're wasted on a complete idiot. Imagine if you had joined us..."

"Shut up! Your days are numbered, thief!" Eirik threatened. At this, she laughed again. "What's so funny?"

"I was just about to say the same thing to you," she replied. "You don't fuck with the Thieves Guild in Riften. We have powerful friends, stronger than Maven or the Empire. You'll never escape them, no matter how far you run, no matter how much you pray, to whatever gods you worship."

"What were you doing here?"

"Same things as the others," she replied. "Leaving a message."

"Is that all you do?" Eirik asked. "Rob from the poor and intimidate any who try to help them?"

"It's good business, is all," she sneered. "Believe me, if you knew what you had coming to you, you wouldn't be begging for us to make good on our threats."

Eirik said nothing, as he pondered the thief's words. But he had lost concentration for one moment and the thief took advantage of that. A dagger was suddenly thrust into Eirik's side and the thief took off, leaving him bleeding in the middle of the street. Fortunately, however, the noise they had made during the struggle and the interrogation had not gone unheeded. Mjoll came to the door and opened it just in time to see the back of the thief as she took off into the darkness and heard Eirik crumble to the ground.

"Eirik? Is that you?" she asked.

"Aye," he coughed.

"Are you hurt?" she knelt down and helped him onto his feet, though he groaned from the knife-wound.

"It's just a flesh wound," Eirik replied.

"Still, you should come inside," she said, ushering him back into the house. But once they passed through the door, and into the light of the candle that Mjoll had lit on her way down, and she saw the blood all over his face and on his side, she exclaimed in fear.

"Aerin!" she shouted. "Aerin, get down here!"

She then lay Eirik on his bed-roll while she searched for any wounds. Moments later, a sleepy Aerin walked down the stairs to see what all the fuss was about and saw Eirik laying there, covered in blood. He ran down the rest of the way and knelt there at Eirik's side, trying to help in any way he could.

"It's fine, it is," Eirik assured them.

"But you're covered in blood!" Aerin said.

Eirik touched his face then held up his hand, then grumbled. "It was the thief, she was painting something on your wall in blood. I caught her and she threw it in my face as she tried to get away."

"Who did this to you?" Mjoll asked. "It was the Thieves Guild, wasn't it?"

"Aye," he nodded.

"They've been striking the townsfolk more frequently since you last left," Mjoll said. "That woman, she was an Imperial, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was."

"I saw her before," Mjoll said. "The day before that Imperial bastard showed his face here. She was with him, they were watching us arrive at this house."

"I've brought danger to your doorstep again," Eirik sighed. "I apologize."

"No need, friend," Aerin said. "Any friend of Mjoll's is a friend of mine."

"Lie still!" Mjoll insisted as Eirik tried to rise.

"No, you don't understand," Eirik argued. "I have to be in Windhelm, there's a ship bound for Solstheim!"

"You're in no condition to ride anywhere," Mjoll retorted.

"I have to go, dammit!" Eirik swore.

"Just rest already!" Mjoll replied strongly. She turned to Aerin and told him to give them a few moments alone. Once the sound of Aerin's footsteps on the stairs vanished, Mjoll leaned down, holding Eirik's head in her hands.

"We'll go by carriage," she said. "That way, you can rest while we still arrive in Windhelm. Did you honestly think I would let this go unrewarded?"

"What?"

"I've seen you show great generosity to the people of Riften," she replied. "You care about them?"

"No one should have to live in this kind of squalor," Eirik said.

Mjoll smiled. "And you returned Grimsever to me! Allow me at least to help you in your time of need, Eirik." He was about to nod, but she pressed one of her fingers upon his lips. "Shh, don't say anything. It will all be taken care of."

She then leaned down, lips dangerously close to his own, then pulled back at the last moment. She stood up and walked off, Eirik tried to call out to her, but he felt nothing and his vision was scattered with pale spots that eventually faded into darkness and he knew no more.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when Eirik finally woke from his slumber. He was shaking about in such a way that he feared that everything he had experienced over the past two months had been a dream, and he was on his way to Helgen, ready to die. It had seemed too unreal, the sudden appearance of the black dragon and his place as the Dragonborn. He was a nobody, a woodsman from Falkreath. He feared then that _this_ time, it would not end so luckily. He would meet his end at the headman's ax, and for no fault of his own: just for trying to return to his home-country.

The face of profound and perfect beauty appeared above his own head, a curtain of soft, golden-brown hair caressing his face. It was Mjoll. He had not dreamed any of it, it was all real. He was alive and not going to die in Helgen. He smiled and, for reasons he could not clearly articulate, reached up and touched the blue stripe on the left side of her face. To his surprise, she did not flinch or swat his hand away.

"Where am I?" Eirik asked.

"We're in a cart on the road to Windhelm," Mjoll replied. "I told you all would be well."

Eirik smiled. "You're a blessing from the gods."

"You flatter me, Eirik," she smiled in return. "But I would do this for anyone."

"Really?" Eirik asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not stupid, you know," Eirik smiled. "I can see the look in your eyes when you look at me."

"Please," Mjoll shook her head. "I'm only showing you kindness."

"Does that mean you will accompany me as far as Windhelm and then leave me?"

She chuckled. "Of course not. As I recall, you had invited me to journey with you and we only returned to Riften because my Grimsever was broken. But now it is whole again and I would like to journey with you again, if that is well with you."

"Aye, that is well." Eirik replied.

"Then take some rest," Mjoll said. "We'll have little time to rest on the Sea of Ghosts."

"What about my..." He reached at his side.

"It's bound," Mjoll said. "As is your wrist. We had to clean it out and apply salves from Elgrim's Elixirs. Aerin bought them, as that Ingun was there. I tell you, something's wrong with her. She spends all her days in there, brewing potions: Aerin overheard her talking about her family. Apparently she has her mother's ambition, but for darker things than merely controlling Riften. I don't trust her."

Eirik sighed and fell asleep, thinking of what would happen once he arrived in Windhelm. Hopefully he would have the strength to find the ship, the Northern Maiden, and endure the long journey to Solstheim, the northernmost island off the coast of Morrowind. Of course, before he left, he would have to speak to Jorleif, Ulfric's steward, and inform him that he arrived. That much would show Ulfric Stormcloak that he was still loyal, but he would still be pushing the limits of Ulfric's patience by delaying the assault on Whiterun. Nevertheless, he had to know who this Miraak was and what he had to do with himself as the Dragonborn.

* * *

**(AN: So, I've been playing through the quest-line of _Dragonborn_, for reference for what is going to happen [if you didn't guess from all the references to Miraak and Solstheim in the past two chapters, wake up]. And I would just like to say that my hatred for the Thalmor has risen just a bit more. Why, you ask? Well, in Solstheim, they are terrorizing members of the Skaal, not because they worship Talos, but because they want the secret location of the stahlrim deposits on Solstheim. Now I know my readers pretty much think the Thalmor should be allowed to play Gestapo wherever they want and terrorize whoever they want because they're elves and anyone who's not an elf should just bend over and take it like a man, but seriously, the Skaal aren't hurting anyone in _Dragonborn_, their way of life is threatened by the eruption of Red Mountain and Miraak's dark sorcery, and then the Thalmor show up to make life harder for them? [like US settlers terrorizing an Indian village because they found gold on their land]) **

**(-sigh- Okay, my rant is done. Don't worry, they will be back in Skyrim before the next month is out [Frostfall, not April]. As I've said over and over, it's Heartfire right now. Idk, I like time and such. As for the little fight, I didn't want Eirik to win, since it was [in case you didn't know], Vex and she would have put up more of a fight and made an escape [Thieves Guild apparently don't kill, so that wasn't out of character].)  
**


	35. Raven Rock

**(AN: Yay reviews, and in case you don't know, _he_ will be back shortly.)**

**(First off, about Eorlund. He doesn't admit that he's one of the Companions, just that he works for them. Secondly, Eirik respects Adrianne because she was the first one who taught him smithing. So he respects her, which is why he went to her first. As far as the blade upgrade, yes, that is from the unofficial patch and he goes along with it because there are more pressing matters on his mind. Also, I kind of suggested that it would be reforged as such. Don't worry, Mjoll will say something about it.)**

**(Vex stabbed Eirik because, for a bit, I feel like he's been getting off too easily. He needs more dire straits, more life-or-death situations. Maybe that's just from me watching _Doctor Who_, where every episode has everyone in risk for their lives. I need that more often. As far as the Thalmor go, I ask you this: does the Empire know or not know of their actions and if they do know, why aren't they doing anything about it? Is it because, as you yourself said _Cyrus_, Skyrim is just a big block of ice which depends on Cyrodiil for resources, so they don't give anything to Cyrodiil and therefore wouldn't be as much of a loss? But if that's the case, why even bring the Imperial Legion in?)**

**(I'm gonna start reading some of HP Lovecraft's works, because when I first came here, I got a distinct Lovecraftian impression from the atmosphere and what was going on in Solstheim. Yay, Lovecraft!)**

* * *

**Raven Rock**

It had been on the eve of the twenty-eighth of Heartfire when Eirik and Mjoll boarded the Northern Maiden, bound from Windhelm to Raven Rock on the island of Solstheim. Eirik spent most of his time huddled in a corner of the huge drekkar, as he was still recovering. Of course, this gave him plenty of time to hear of Mjoll's many adventures in Morrowind. While she had not been to Solstheim proper, she had been to the surrounding lands and knew, from rumor, little of what awaited them on the isle. The population consisted mostly of Dunmer, the dark elves, with Nordic presence being negligible at best. She told him of encounters with a secluded group of shamans called the Skaal, who were Nords living on Morrowind proper. But she knew not if any of them were to be found on the island. Then, of course, there was Red Mountain, or Dagoth Ur in the Dunmer tongue, the great volcano in the center of the island of Vvardenfell, which sat in the center of Morrowind. Legends spoke that it was formed out of the heart of Lorkhan, the _aedra_ who made the world Nirn. Near the beginning of the Fourth Era it erupted and, as Mjoll told Eirik, it was in a state of constant eruption ever since she first crossed the mountains of Skyrim and beheld that gray, bleak land beyond. But mostly she spoke of the creatures that inhabited Morrowind, such things as he had never seen in his entire life.

At last, after two days at sea, the Northern Maiden passed on into a sea of smoke. The captain, Gjalund Salt-Sage, told them that this meant they were nearing the southern coast of Solstheim, which was shrouded in a giant ash-cloud from Vvardenfell. This they could see from the ship like a great cloud that, far in the south, was still high in the sky. Near at hand, it was like a giant cloud that nestled upon the water's edge. The captain told them that the cold winds from the farthest north cooled most of the ash, but it would still be hot and stuffy in Raven Rock, the port-town on the eastern corner of the island.

With torches lit, the ship passed through the clouds and arrived at the bay where Raven Rock was located. By this time, Eirik was well enough to be up and about on his feet and he saw this new land for the first time. It was dull and gray, covered in a thick layer of gray-white ash. The air was filled with ash, like a snowfall in winter, but it was warm and not cold and Eirik coughed as he breathed in the hot ash. The sun, which was bright and clear, sometimes overcast, in the skies of Skyrim, was hidden under the clouds of ash, giving the illusion of an almost eternal dusk. From where their ship was, they could see a town on the edge of the bay, covered in ash.

"Well, here we are," captain Gjalund said to Mjoll and Eirik. "Can't say I'm glad to be back here. Maybe you can find out what's troubling the people here."

Eirik nodded. He had remembered Mjoll and the captain getting into a very heated argument when they first arrived. He was resolute on refusing to set sail for Solstheim and it took everything they had to convince him to sail. That wasn't exactly the best situation, not with angry glares from the yellow-green eyes of the Argonians on the dock exchange at Windhelm. It was common knowledge that the Argonians, reptilian humanoids from the Black Marsh far in the south-east of Tamriel, were looked upon with contempt by many of the Nords of Skyrim. Ever close and secretive, they were an easy target for those who saw outsiders as threats to the Nordic way of life. As such, those Argonians in Windhelm lived in the Assemblage on the dock exchange. Eirik, for one, kept his distance from them, because they weren't exactly friendly to him, regardless of what he thought of them. There would be few Argonians in Solstheim, though. They had taken Morrowind from the Dunmer earlier in the Fourth Era, causing very strong racial prejudices between the Dunmer, displaced from their homes by the eruption of Vvardenfell, and the aggressive Argonians who had taken their ancient homeland from them as well.

The Northern Maiden settled in at the docks, and Gjalund sent his crew to securing the ship. While they were preparing to leave, a Dunmer in fine red clothing boarded the ship. When he saw Eirik, his red eyes squinted with suspicion.

"I don't recognize you, Nord," he said, speaking in an upper-class voice of authority. "So I assume this is your first visit to Raven Rock, _outlander_. State your intentions!"

"I'm looking for someone called Miraak," Eirik said. "Have you heard of him?"

For a moment, the Dunmer's v-shaped brow was twisted in thought. He spoke his response hesitantly. "I'm not...entirely sure. Nevertheless, as long as you're staying here, remember this. Raven Rock is sovereign territory of the House Redoran. This is Morrowind, not Skyrim: while you're here, you will be expected to obey _our_ laws. Any questions?"

"You don't seem to trust outsiders," Eirik stated.

"And with good reason!" the Dunmer snapped. "I am Adril Arano, second councilor here at Raven Rock. The security of this town is my responsibility."

"Have there been any security issues?" Mjoll queried.

"Of course," Adril replied. "This isn't exactly Blacklight. We're on the frontier and there have been a fair share of ruffians. But I won't let them get the best of us, not after all we've put into this town."

"Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me about Miraak?" Eirik asked.

"Who?"

"Miraak!"

"I'm sorry," Adril shook his head. "I'm almost certain I know the name, but I cannot place it! I...I think it has something to do with the Earth-Stone, but I'm not entirely sure."

"Thank you," Eirik said.

"Remember," Adril said, posturing himself before the Nord. "We're watching you."

Eirik and Mjoll disembarked from the ship and onto the docks. It felt good to have solid ground beneath their feet again, even if it was covered in a foot of ash. The guards here were covered in bonemold armor from head to toe that looked like burnished bronze. Eirik soon discovered that while walking ash wasn't exactly hard work, it soon became difficult by reason of the ash kicked up from each footstep. The town of Raven Rock had high walls of stone on either side, and most of the buildings were made after the fashion of the hide of giant insect creatures like the chauri: all covered in ash. While they walked, Eirik noticed that more than a few red eyes were turned their way, most of them with a kind of quiet contempt.

"Why are they looking at us?" Eirik whispered to Mjoll.

"They distrust Nords as much as Argonians," Mjoll replied. "They invaded Morrowind in the First Era and the Dunmer have never forgotten that."

"I see," Eirik sighed. Just then, he saw a Dunmer guard approach him. Instead of saluting him, as most of the Nord guards did, he turned to Eirik and glared at him from the slit in his helmet.

"What do you want?" the guard asked.

"I would like directions to the Earth Stone," Eirik said.

"Can't you look for yourself?" the guard retorted. Then, with a disgusted grumble, he pointed back east. "That way."

Eirik turned where he was directed and saw a long peninsula on the northern border of Raven Rock. Eirik turned to thank the guard, but he was back on his appointed rounds. Eirik and Mjoll then made their way thither to the northern border of the town. Once outside, they turned east and began walking towards the peninsula. The land was covered in ash, and what few ash-covered plants had survived the century or so of ash-fall were only the hardiest.

* * *

Now they came to the tall stone to which they had been directed. It stood in the midst of two ash-covered pine-trees, under which stood a bald Dunmer in red robes, watching several people working about the large shrine. Mjoll and Eirik approached the Dunmer, who turned to greet the newcomers. Though he was red-eyed and blue-skinned with a fiercely prominent brow, like the others of his race, he greeted them with unusual kindness. But perhaps kindness wasn't the proper word: it was more like profound curiosity.

"You there," he said. "You don't seem to be in quite the same state as the others, very interesting."

"State? What state?" Eirik asked.

"See for yourself," the Dunmer said, pointing to the shrine.

Eirik turned to the shrine and saw a group of people working with hand-tools on the shrine. Most of them were Dunmer - guards, men, women and children, townsfolk of all ages - but some were Nords clad in thick hide clothing, so thick that Eirik wondered if they were not packed with horker blubber. They all seemed to be speaking in the same lifeless, droning voice. The words they said, however, unnerved Eirik as he heard them speak in the dreary, ashen landscape.

"_Here is the shrine..._" said they. "_That they have forgotten...Here do we toil...That we might remember..._"

"May I ask what it is you're doing here?" the Dunmer asked.

"Oh, I'm looking for information about someone called Miraak." Eirik said. "Do you know anything?"

"_By night we reclaim..._" droned the workers. "_What by day was stolen...Far from ourselves...He grows ever near to us..._"

"Miraak," the Dunmer mused thoughtfully for a moment or two. Nearby, the people spoke on in their monotonous mantra.

"_Our eyes once were_ _blind..._"

"I remember now!" he exclaimed. "But no, that makes very little sense."

"_Now through him do we see..._"

"Tell us, please!" Mjoll asked.

"_Our hands once were idle..._"

"Miraak, he's been dead for thousands of years," the elf replied.

"_Now through them does he speak..._"

"What does that mean?" Eirik asked.

"_And when the world shall listen..._"

"I'm not sure," said the Dunmer. "It might have something to do with what's going on here, though. Fascinating! I'm afraid I can't give you any answers, although..."

"_And when the world shall see..._"

"Although what?" Eirik asked.

"Listen!" Mjoll spoke, turning their attention to the last words of the chant. In the dead air, filled with ash, sun hidden from view in a land seemingly forsaken by all the Divines, the words these workers spoke in dead, droning unison made their skin crawl and their blood run cold.

"_And when the world remembers...That world shall cease to be..._"

"What are they saying?" Eirik asked breathlessly.

"I'm not sure," the elf said. "Although, as I was about to say, there are ruins near the center of the island. My research has shown that they were part of an ancient temple dedicated to Miraak. If I were you, I'd look there for answers."

"Haven't you been listening?" Mjoll asked. "Something's wrong with these people!" She turned to the Dunmer. "Haven't you tried to stop them?"

"Me? Of course not!" the Dunmer exclaimed. "To do that would prevent whatever happens when they're done. I've been waiting too long to see what happens when they're finished, I just _have _to see how all this turns out!" He turned and walked away, leaving them alone with the hypnotized people, chanting their endless words of doom. Eirik looked on in horror at this, his mind racing with fear of what they were doing and if it was contagious or not.

"Oi! Stormcloak!" a voice shouted.

Roused from his thoughts, Eirik turned about and saw a figure clad in what used to be the black clothes of a thief with a black hood and cloak on his shoulders: now they were covered in gray-white ash. Nearby, Eirik heard Mjoll groan in frustration. That one who had spoken was now wading through the ash to meet them, dagger in one hand. At last he came to a halt near where they stood, then chuckled aloud.

"You certainly took your damn time getting here," Crixus said. "Welcome to Solstheim."

* * *

**(AN: As good a place as any to close a chapter.)**

**(Blah blah, I'm being unfair to all the races, etc. Morrowind was part of Ysgramor's empire, then invaded by the Argonians, so of course they distrust outsiders. Because it's okay for the other races to be racist, only when it's the Nords is when it's bad. Yes, Crixus is back and I feel I didn't get through just how horrifying this place can be. Don't worry, we have next chapter to show more.)  
**


	36. Into the Mine

**(AN: Sorry for sounding like a hipster, but I have _Oblivion_. Hell, I played it on the PS2, long before _Skyrim_ was ever developed! I got bored after being slaughtered when I ran out of money, had no way of knowing where the main quest was, and the guards wanted to kill me for stealing [not to mention hideous character models that made PS1 models look fabulous]. -sigh- But I have it on PS3 [along with _Skyrim_, my younger brother bought it because now he's the Elder Scrolls hipster, even getting _Daggerfall_ and _A__rena_ from the Bethesda website], yet...I remember it having better graphics on the PS2. Oh well.)**

**(4E5, the year of the eruption of Red Mountain. The events of _Skyrim_ take place during 4E201, almost two hundred years after the eruption. Yes, Raven Rock existed prior to that, and even with the Bulwark, we're talking about almost two hundred years worth of ash-fall, and its not like an avalanche that a wall could stop, it's like snow-fall. I'm surprised anything is still living on the southern half of Solstheim, after so long of continuous ash-fall.)**

**(Oh well, I got on _Skyrim_, played through the ebony mine mission so I would have first-hand experience what it was like for the sake of writing this chapter.)**

* * *

**Into the Mine  
**

"Well?" Crixus asked. "Are you two just gonna stand there with your mouths open like a bunch of trolls?"

"I see your manners haven't changed," Mjoll retorted.

"Neither has your weight," Eirik replied. Mjoll reached for Grimsever as Eirik stepped between the two of them. Crixus laughed. "What, are you going to stop me with that iron great-sword?" He laughed again. "By the thousand arms of Hermaeus Mora, what are you hunting, butterflies?"

"Could you please stop taunting us?" Eirik asked.

"Why don't you make me stop, huh?" Crixus retorted. "That's how you Nords are like, isn't it?"

"Stop, the both of you!" Mjoll shouted. She turned to Eirik. "I saw an inn back in the town. We've had a rough journey, we need to rest. Maybe then we can see what to do about..." She looked over at Crixus. Eirik nodded, then turned and walked with her back towards the town.

"I can see who wears the pants here, milk-drinker," Crixus chuckled into Eirik's ear.

They walked back to Raven Rock in silence, for it seemed that everything they said would be used against them by Crixus. The inn they found, called the Retching Netch, was across from one of the only buildings that looked like it had been built by Nords instead of Dunmer. The inn looked very small, barely large enough to house a bar. Once they passed through the doors, however, they saw that it led to an underground level, where the bar, the bedrooms and the common room were located. They purchased drinks - Nord mead for Eirik and Mjoll and Argonian blood-wine for Crixus - and found themselves a seat at one of the tables.

"So," Eirik began. "You brought us out here for a reason."

"We'll go out to find this Miraak," Crixus began. "Yes, I've been asking around."

"What's stopping you from going yourself?" Eirik asked.

"Ash-flow has been particularly heavy," Crixus said. "Autumn brings the cold winds down upon northern Tamriel from the north, blows most of the ash back to Morrowind. Soon we'll be able to walk towards the center of the island without trouble."

"There are other things I wanted to ask you, before," Eirik began.

"Oh, spare me!" Crixus sighed, taking a long drink from his tankard.

"You seem to have no respect for anyone but yourself," Eirik said. "And yet you serve the Empire: why is that?"

"Don't you have better things to do than bother me with your questions?" Crixus replied. "Maybe some elf-babies to kill, or Argonian women to rape?"

"Enough!" Eirik replied. "Answer me!"

"Fuck you."

"I grow tired of your attitude!"

"I grow tired of _you_," Crixus smirked.

"Tell me now!" Eirik demanded.

"I don't owe anyone any explanations," Crixus replied, his smile fading. "Who I choose to help is my business, not yours."

"Do they pay you more?" Eirik asked, half in jest.

"You don't know me, you stupid fucking Nord!" Crixus shouted.

"That's all you are, isn't it? Just another sellsword out for money." Eirik replied.

"I'm warning you," Crixus said, drawing out his dagger and thrusting it into the table. "Hold your tongue or I'll cut it off!"

"You feel free to criticize everything I do, yet you're conveniently safe from criticism?"

"Yeah, that's the short of it."

"Why?"

"Because you're a Nord," Crixus sneered. "Your kind think you're entitled to everything, but you're nothing, you're less than skeever shit. So why don't you put Ulfric's long-sword back in your mouth and stop talking?"

"What is your problem?" Eirik shouted, rising up to his feet. "From the moment I've met you, you've been nothing but trouble! Insulting me and taunting me at every turn!"

"Since when did _you_ become such a b*tch?" Crixus laughed. "I thought all Nords were supposed to be tough and manly."

Enraged, Eirik seized Crixus by the lapels of his black jacket and pushed him up against the wall. Mjoll's hand reached for her sword as she saw people starting to stare at them and several guards turning from their mugs.

"Answer me, dammit!" Eirik roared.

"Don't you fucking touch me, you filthy Nord!" Crixus threatened.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" Eirik replied. "Tell me now!"

"You really wanna know?"

"Yes, now!"

"It's because you're a fucking idiot!" Crixus shouted. But he wasn't smug now: his face was deadly serious. "You and your shit-brained race, you take pride in death and battle and killing people. You don't know shit about real battle, about going from day to day, not knowing if you're going to survive to the end of the day! About seeing your fellow soldiers eviscerated before your eyes, and you have to stand there, with their blood on your hands, hearing them cry out to indifferent gods, begging for Aetherius or whatever the fuck they believe, and you have to look them in the eyes and lie to them, just because the truth is too painful to tell them! There's no honor in battle, no glory in killing a man. Now take your fucking hands off me or I'll kill you in your sleep."

"Listen, _humans_!" the voice of an angry Dunmer shouted. "If you have a problem, take it outside now or I'll call the guards have them throw you both in the Bulwark jail, is that understood?"

"Aye," Eirik grumbled, releasing his grip on Crixus' jacket. Crixus glared angrily at the Nord, then took his seat again, finishing off the rest of his blood-wine.

"Now," he began, speaking more to Mjoll than to Eirik. "As I was about to say, before this shit-brained skeever felt like being a b*tch..."

"That'll be enough of that, now." Mjoll interjected.

"Why, you got a problem, fatty?" Crixus replied with a smirk.

"Don't call me fat!" Mjoll replied.

"I'll call whoever I want whatever I want," Crixus retorted, gripping his dagger in hand. "As I was saying, while I was waiting for this one..." He pointed to Eirik, then waved for the bartender. "Another blood-wine!" He then turned back to them. "There's an ebony mine in town, one of the biggest suppliers of ebony ore in Morrowind since most of the mines on Vvardenfell were flooded with ash, except now it's been abandoned."

"Why?" Mjoll asked.

"Ran dry," Crixus said. "But there's someone from Cyrodiil, who's been giving the East Empire Trading Co. grief with his complaints."

"And you were sent to silence him?" Eirik replied.

"You really _are_ dense, aren't you?"

"Please, let him finish!" Mjoll said, placing her hand in front of Eirik to assuage his wrath. Crixus snorted in laughter and handed ten gold to the Dunmer bartender as he brought him another bottle of Argonian blood-wine.

"His great-grandfather died," Crixus said. "Mining accident, but the poor old bastard won't believe it. He wants me to go inside and find out what happened to his great-grandfather."

"Why do you need us?" Mjoll queried.

"I thought it would be fun," Crixus smiled. "I thought Nords sought battle and challenge, after all. Well, Solstheim's full of worthy challenges. Rieklings, little blue-skinned buggers, but they'll gore you to death if you're not careful. Then there's the ash spawn. They've been here since the eruption of the Red Mountain and even though they're made of ash, they're tough to kill. Imagine if we met a horde of them, especially in the mines, huh? That would be a good enough challenge, wouldn't it?"

"I agree."

"What?" Eirik asked. "You're siding with him?"

"I'm not siding with him," Mjoll replied. "I love a good fight. It would be well to visit these mines, if only to help this old man make peace with his past."

"If you insist." Eirik sighed.

"Perfect," Crixus said. "Now, there's going to be quite a bit of heavy ash-fall this evening, which means we can't go out today. Might as well buy yourselves a room and make yourselves comfortable."

* * *

The rooms they bought were inexpensive, and once they found them, Eirik and Mjoll began to settle in for the night. The room was small with no windows looking outward, which gave the impression of a cave. Eirik, guessing that a round of argument over who would take the bed, decided to set his things upon the floor without any argument.

"What are you doing?" Mjoll suddenly asked.

"Sleeping on the floor," he replied.

"Why not have the bed?"

"You're asking me to share the bed?" Eirik asked.

"Yes, of course," Mjoll said, sliding over and offering the empty half of the bed to him. Eirik slowly removed his armor, then climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over him. "Comfortable?"

"Aye."

"Just so you know, this isn't an invitation," Mjoll reminded him. "I asked you in here because I won't have you sleeping on the floor again."

"It's nothing," Eirik dismissed. "I sleep on the ground all the time I travel."

"You're not in the wilds," Mjoll replied. "You shouldn't have to sleep on the floor. Now get some rest, we're going to need it tomorrow."

Eirik grumbled, then rolled onto his side, trying desperately not to think about Mjoll. Yet, try as he might, he couldn't get the red-golden-haired woman out of his mind. He tried thinking of something else, anything else: the dreams he would have about Helgen, the infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy in Haafingar, dragon's fire, draugr leaping out of the darkness in their barrows, the visions of the night eternal and the nameless deity who seemed to be calling him onwards, towards Solstheim, and through all of that, her face danced through his visions until they were gone and only she remained: warm hazel-eyes, red-golden hair, large lips. It was not an invasive presence, one that sought to learn secrets or make demands, it was simply there, dispelling the darkness from his mind.

* * *

Eirik awoke when refreshed, though he knew not if the sun were up. Not only was the sun covered by the clouds of ash from the Red Mountain, but their room was underground, with no windows showing the light of the sunrise. It wasn't natural, any of it. He rolled over, then found that someone else was in his bed. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he saw who it was, then rolled back onto his back and sighed contentedly. It was only Mjoll. He smiled and for a moment, wished that this could be for more than just warmth in bed.

But that moment quickly ended as a loud knock was heard on the door.

"Oi! Don't you Nords ever wake up early?" It was Crixus. "What, tired from all the sheep-shagging last night?"

Eirik rolled out of bed and crawled over to where lay his armor, which he began strapping on while he heard Mjoll sigh behind him.

"What's all the hurry?" she asked.

"We have to wake up," Eirik replied. "Or your friend will wake the whole inn with his ranting."

"He's not my friend," Mjoll stated. "I'm just sick of fighting with him all the time. Who knows? Maybe he will lead us to some great challenge in the ebony mines?"

"Or a trap," Eirik stated. "He's an Imperial, I heard him. He said he'd kill me if I affiliated with the Stormcloaks. This could be a clever ruse to get me into a dark, abandoned underground cave and conveniently kill me off, like that old Cyrodilian miner he spoke of."

"Oi!" Crixus' voice shouted. "This door isn't very thick, ass-hole!"

Eirik groaned. "Do you see?"

"We're just going to have to trust him, is all." Mjoll said, as she reached for her armor.

When they were finally prepared, they left the room and followed Crixus back up top. He did not give them time to buy breakfast in the inn, for he told them that they had wasted away the morning and the ash-fall this afternoon would be heavy, which meant that they could not wait long or else be trapped in hot, blinding and choking downpour of hot ash from Vvardenfell. Crixus assured them, however, that he had brought supplies for a long journey and there was nothing to fear. Eirik did not believe him, but was content to know that they would not be going into the mine unprepared. Maybe he was being sincere about this task.

They left the Retching Netch and entered upon a dark, grayish day, with the sun hidden beneath heavy clouds of ash. With Crixus in the lead, black leather garments frosted with ash, they walked through the town to the entrance to the mine-shaft in the side of the mountain on the eastern side of the town. They passed under its roof, coughing ash as they finally found air that was free of it.

"Yeah, the ash is a real b*tch," Crixus stated. "But its better here than in Morrowind. Cold winds this far north cool the ash down, so its not as hazardous down south on Vvardenfell. Still makes life hell up here."

"For once, we agree on something," Eirik said.

Crixus opened a lantern that was hanging from one of the ceiling support beams of the mine-shaft and thrust a torch into the flame. He then tossed with his other hand two other dead torches to Mjoll and Eirik, who them lit their torches from his, until they were illuminating a small spot of ground about their feet in the gloom of the mine.

"This way," Crixus said, turning into the mine and leading the way, his torch bobbing with each step.

"I give you Morrowind and the Dunmer as my first example," Crixus began, as they were making their way in.

"Example of what?" Eirik interrupted.

"Red Mountain erupts, destroying almost all of Vvardenfell and burying the rest of Morrowind in almost two hundred years of ash," Crixus continued. "So what do they do? They run to your precious little shit-hole of a country, but then get delegated into the lowest part of life, the worst part of the shit-hole. Now, one would think that, if the Divines were real, surely they would do something for them, send one their way to save them from their hardships, or better yet, do it themselves."

"You do not fear the gods?" Mjoll asked.

"For one, they're mortal," Crixus said. "For two, they turn a blind eye to whatever happens in Tamriel, which proves one of two things: either they're not there or they don't care, which means they might as well not be there. But third, I don't fear no Eight Divines because they're not proper gods, too forgiving and such."

"You don't fear the gods because they are forgiving?" Mjoll asked incredulously.

"Sure," Crixus smirked. "Forgiveness is overrated. In real life, if you let the thief go, he'll pick your pocket on his way out. If you let the murderer go, he'll kill again. Even Stendarr is weak, seasoned with mercy and forbearance. There can be no forbearance, not in the real world."

"You say the gods turn a blind eye to the happenings of Tamriel," Eirik spoke up. "That is not so..." Then he suddenly felt very foolish for saying so as Crixus turned about and approached him.

"What did you just say?"

"I said...I said the gods have not forsaken Tamriel," Eirik repeated.

"Why? Because you think you're the gift of Akatosh or whatever?" Crixus snorted.

"I've seen oracles of one of the gods," Eirik said slowly.

Crixus laughed. "Have you been hitting the skooma?"

"Three times," Eirik stated. "Three times I have been contacted by one of the gods, a woman, with an important task."

"Oh yeah?" Crixus retorted. "What did she look like, this woman, this goddess of yours? Did she have good breasts?"

"You pig!" Mjoll scoffed.

"Halt!" Crixus called out. "I think we're getting close."

Crixus walked away from the group apace, torch held aloft. As he walked out into the darkness, they could hear the sound of creaking boards beneath his feet. The light of his torch fell upon a platform of wood with a staircase that led down into the darkness. He turned over to Eirik and Mjoll and waved them onward. They walked towards him, feeling wood beneath their own feet as they approached the top of the stairs, where he stood.

"This here's the main mine-shaft," Crixus said. "My friend, Crescius Caerellius, won't go farther than here. The rest of the mine is apparently closed off."

Mjoll sniffed the air. "What in Kyne's name is that smell?"

"Dead skeever," Crixus said. "Last time I was down here, had to fight off a few of 'em, and some of those frostbite spiders. Then again, it could be draugr, they do stink something awful." Crixus was the first one down the stairs, followed closely by the others.

"While we're on our way down here," he continued. "Let's make sure to keep talking."

"I have nothing more to say to you," Eirik said.

"Oh, that's too bad," Crixus said. "Because, unlike you, I'm not a stupid Nord. We keep talking to know that we're not lost. There should still be a good mile or so before we encounter anything. Now, tell me about this woman you say you saw in your dream."

"I wasn't looking at her body," Eirik grudgingly began. "She was too bright, a crown of stars on her head and what looked like the moon and sun about her, or in her hands, or something." Crixus began laughing. "What is it now?"

"By the cock of Sanguine!" Crixus swore. "That's no Divine!"

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"By your description, that sounds like one of the daedra instead," he said. "Azura, I'd think."

"Daedra are evil," Mjoll said.

"And here I thought _you_ at least wouldn't be stupid," Crixus sighed. "But, once a Nord always a Nord, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"Daedra are not evil," Crixus began. "Whoever told you that is some naive fool. The daedra represent change, the alterations of life. Some of the change they represent are a bit more...radical than others, but that doesn't make them evil. They exist beyond primitive nomenclatures such as good and evil." He looked back at Eirik. "You shouldn't be so quick to judge, though, Stormcloak. Your people worshiped the daedra once, along with these damnable dragons."

"That was the past," Eirik said.

"And you're just as stupid now as then," Crixus replied. He then turned back around and whispered to them. "Shh! Noise down, barbarians! I think we're getting close."

The air was thick and cold this far below the surface, and there was a horrible stink of dry rot wafting up from the stairs below. Then they heard a stone shuffling and the sound of something growling below their feet.

"Draugr," Eirik whispered. He saw Crixus draw out a dagger and barely suppressed a laugh.

"Something funny, scumbag?" Crixus asked.

"Have you _ever_ fought draugr before?" Eirik asked.

"Yeah," Crixus replied. "Burn 'em or tear 'em apart."

"And that knife of yours isn't tearing nothing apart," Eirik replied. "Not if it's draugr."

"Which is why I take more than one dagger," Crixus smirked.

Eirik shook his head, then waited as the sound of growling and shuffling was heard below their feet. Yet even in their torchlight, they could see nothing. Suddenly, the boards creaked as they were struck by steel-tipped arrows. Eirik drew out his sword and ran the rest of the way down the steps. A growl was heard and then something hit the ground. Behind them came Mjoll, who ran down the steps as well and drew out Grimsever, burying it in the rotten flesh of one of the draugr. The one Eirik had downed he now brought down his sword upon its neck, severing the head from the body and leaving it to writhe for a few moments. Mjoll, meanwhile, had seized the head of the draugr she was fighting and had ripped it off. Blindly, it reached back with its arms to tear her apart, but she had snapped the wrist of the dried and brittle bones and flesh of the long dead Nord.

Above, Crixus was watching them with bored disinterest. He waited then until he saw something else down below. With his keen eyes, he saw what it was, but held his tongue: let the stupid Nords find out the hard way and be brought to their collective knees, then he would show them just how useful he was. He would not have some arrogant Talos-worshiper be a better fighter than he.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" the voice of a draugr deathlord shouted.

Below, Eirik and Mjoll were thrown against the wall. Crixus smirked, then waited for the large draugr to walk beneath the platform on which he stood. He leaped over the rail and broke his fall on the draugr deathlord. The Cyrodilian pushed himself up to his feet, and quickly drew out a dagger from his belt that was warm beneath his fingers. He drove the dagger into the shoulder of the draugr deathlord at the neck, then took it out and thrust it repeatedly into its back. In a few moments, the draugr had caught fire. It flailed about, then began to fall apart as the flames seared its flesh apart. Everyone was coughing from the stench of rotten and burning flesh.

"See?" Crixus replied. "Always bring more than one knife."

* * *

**(AN: I've suddenly been hit with a swarm of ideas for this story, some of them from my brother, who has some interesting ideas for Crixus [he's pro-Imperial, so you know they won't be that horrible])**

**(I wonder if what will happen at the end of the mine should happen now or happen later, especially considering what will happen at the Temple of Miraak, which will happen after this, but then again, _that_ should be the reveal, not this. What do you say?)**


	37. Mine of Raven Rock

**(AN: I considered several titles for this chapter, but settled on this one because it's ambiguous.)**

**(-sigh- With school, how much time I get on this laptop and my girlfriend, I get almost no time to make any updates. I'm glad for what updates I can put in and, I feel like I'm flogging a dead horse here, the reviews help keep the story updates coming, so please, for the love of the Nine, keep 'em coming!)**

* * *

**Mine of Raven Rock**

"That certainly was a neat trick," Eirik said. "But you got lucky."

"Lucky?" Crixus replied, sheathing his knife. "I should castrate you for that remark!"

"A flame-enchanted dagger into a draugr is good enough," Eirik stated. "But what happens when you can't get the jump on your enemy? What if they have the jump on you? What if you draw that precious little knife and the deathlord you fight comes at you with a great-sword?"

"What, like the one you're carrying?" Crixus asked. In one quick move, he drew the dagger back out of his sheath and thrust it forward into Eirik's face. He lurched back, but there was no need. The Cyrodilian kept a firm grip on the knife, keeping it from piercing Eirik's nose by a finger's breadth.

"Come along, now," he laughed. "There's more where that came from."

With torches out, they walked on into the darkness, their ears keen for the sound of footsteps or the sounds of draugr. There seemed to be nothing at first, only the cold, dead sounds of the cave. After a while, the air became increasingly colder. Crixus ran to one of the walls and began feeling the sides with his right hand.

"What are you looking for?" Eirik asked.

"He told me to look for this," Crixus said. "He said it can usually be found where the temperature drops even greater than usual."

"Who said so?" Eirik asked again.

"A Breton named Glover Mallory," Crixus replied. "He runs the blacksmith shop in Raven Rock, he was my contact when I first arrived in Solstheim: you wouldn't like him, though."

"Why?"

"Aside from your usual hatred of non-Nords," Crixus shot back. "He's a member of the Thieves Guild."

"Their blight has come this far?" Mjoll asked.

"This far?" Crixus snorted. "They're all over Tamriel, from here to Summerset. They can't be stopped and they won't be...aha! Here it is, by Sithis!"

"What is it?" Eirik asked again.

"Bring those torches over here!" Crixus demanded. "See for yourself!"

They approached the wall where Crixus was standing and saw what he was looking at. Upon the wall was a sheet of ice, shining with the red-golden fire of their torches. But it gave off a greater cold than normal ice. Eirik knocked on it with his knuckles and it rang almost like stone.

"Stalhrim," Crixus laughed. "Enchanted ice. This should fetch a fine price at any buyer in any shop in Tamriel!"

"And how do you plan to get it?" Mjoll asked.

"What?" both Eirik and Crixus asked.

"Remember, I've been around Tamriel," she began, ignoring Crixus' snicker at her statement. "I've heard the stories about enchanted ice. It was supposed to be stronger than stone, no ordinary pick-axe of iron or steel could possibly ever break it."

"That's why I have this," Crixus said. He then removed a pick-axe of a strange kind of steel, ornately carved and covered with runes. "Mallory had one, I had to...persuade Crescius to give it back to him. He gave it to me for my trouble, said it would come in handy."

Eirik began walking about while Mjoll held a torch up behind Crixus. He had discarded his own torch on the ground and was now taking his ancient Nordic pick-axe to the stalhrim upon the walls of the cavern. Eirik, meanwhile, was examining the sides of the room. It didn't look like any mine he was aware of. In fact, he realized that it was no mine at all.

"This is no mine," he said at last. "It's a tomb."

"Tell us something we don't know, idiot," Crixus called back.

"No, really, this is an ancient Nordic tomb," Eirik said. "I remember because I've been in them before, in Skyrim. They usually reserve the innermost chambers for the old chieftains or priests."

"I know about your customs, Nord," Crixus replied.

"There should be something of interest further down this tunnel," Eirik stated.

"All I know," Crixus said as he hacked at the stalhrim on the wall. "Is that our friend's great-grandfather is somewhere down here and we need to find him. Now, be a good boy and pick up this stalhrim."

"I am no one's boy, and certainly not the boy of some Thalmor cock-sucker!"

"What, you like the taste of Ulfric's, do you?"

"That's enough, both of you!" Mjoll shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "If we're going to get out of here alive, we need to work together." She sighed. "I can carry a good bit of gear, Imperial. I'll give you a hand."

Eirik, meanwhile, was on the other end of the room, where he found a large chest. He reached at the lid but it wouldn't budge. He called for light, and both Crixus and Mjoll ran over to see what it was.

"Stand aside, Nord," Crixus said. "I've got this." He pulled out a knife and placed it in the lock. With his other hand he pulled out a tiny pick, which he stuck into the lock and began moving about carefully this way and that.

"You know, I could have done that myself," Eirik stated.

"What, a barbarian lockpick?" Crixus laughed. "What would you do, smash it against your forehead?"

"I have broken my way out of several circumstances before," Eirik said. "My hands might not be the most steady, but they can work the pick just as well as yours, I'll wager."

"If I were you, and weren't interested in losing my septims," Crixus replied, as the lock clicked. "I wouldn't make foolish wagers." He pushed the lid open and they began milling through the contents of the chest. There was an old one-handed ax, a few gold bars, some jewels, and two clay jars.

"Gold bars," Crixus said. "Currency before the time of Tiber Septim." He smiled. "It's mine, you can have the rest."

"I thought you wanted the stalhrim," Mjoll said.

"I do, and you can carry that," Crixus smirked, taking a few of the bars. "But I'm keeping this on my person, just to be safe."

Eirik, meanwhile, had his hands on one of the jars and was twisting it open. Inside was a blue substance that shimmered like liquid, yet did not slosh like liquid as Eirik stirred it in his hand.

"Netch jelly," Mjoll said. "Gotten from the netchs here, or in Morrowind. Clever stuff, that. Don't eat it, though. It'll freeze your limbs solid fast and make your heart stop for a moment."

They took the rest of the things from the chest, then made their way onward, Mjoll laden with stalhrim. Torches held in hand they continued onward, ears keen for whatever they might hear. They had spent quite a bit of time underground and were starting to feel the effects of it. Already their ears could hear things they could not hear before, and the light of the torches stung their eyes. The thick air was starting to make their heads ache, or at least Eirik's head ache. Mjoll and Crixus seemed unaffected by the darkness.

"I've ventured into many Nord ruins in my time," Mjoll spoke. "Somehow venturing into these feels like going home." Crixus said nothing, for he was determined on the goal ahead, or so it seemed.

"How long have we been down here?" Eirik asked.

"What's the matter, Stormcloak, missing the sun already?" Crixus joked.

"Aren't you?"

"I'm not losing my mind, if that's what you mean," he replied. "Still, must have been several hours since we entered the mine."

"I wonder what it is like in the surface above," Eirik wondered. "I wonder if..."

"Shh!" Crixus shushed. "Listen!"

They halted for a while as they heard a sound they did not think they would be hearing, not in this dark-some ruin. It was soft at first, just beyond the reach of their ears, even heightened as they were by reason of the darkness. Then it came again, soft and tinkling, like tiny bells in the darkness.

_Water._

Eirik's heart leaped as he ran forward, eager to the cool, refreshing taste of water upon his lips: even if it wasn't beer, water could be as good as beer in a pinch. Behind him ran Mjoll, while Crixus took up the rear, wary of whatever waited them beyond. They passed through a long stone tunnel that sloped downward. The walls fled outward from all sides, leading them into a wide, circular room. Just beyond, they could hear the rush of water, louder and more prominent than in the depths of the tunnel.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar. The sound of stone sarcophagi shattering was heard on all sides. Suddenly, two draugr rose from their tombs on both sides. Eirik collapsed suddenly as he felt his limbs turning numb, as though he had leaped into the Sea of Ghosts in the depths of winter. But he was a Nord, and even a spell of frost would not be enough to take him down. He pushed himself back up to his feet and punched the draugr in the face, caving in one of its glowing blue eyes. Then he drew out his great-sword and hacked the arm off, the spell ceasing. With a hiss, the draugr leaped at him with its other hand. But Eirik had already run it through with his sword, lifting the ancient dead Nord off its feet before heaving it down to the ground. Suddenly the other one growled, but Mjoll had drawn out Grimsever and hacked its knee, sending the draugr crumbling to the ground. But then, three more stone sarcophagi were opened and Eirik saw, to his dismay, a sight he feared greatly, a sight worse to him than a dragon: three draugr deathlords, all clad in ancient armor with high helms, wielding great-swords of ancient Nordic steel.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" one of them shouted.

Eirik cried out as he was thrust forcefully against the stone wall of the tomb. Mjoll rose Grimsever to the defense. The deathlord swung at her, but the malachite blade turned the blow. But the draugr swung again, this time burying its blade in Mjoll's armor. It bit through to her skin and she collapsed under the weight of the draugr's seemingly limitless strength. At this time, Crixus decided to make an attempt at an attack. He drew out his flaming dagger, but it was knocked out of his hand by the sudden swing of the draugr's sword. He rolled forward as the third one made another swing, then pulled off of Eirik's body the old steel axe and dove it into the leg of the draugr deathlord. It crumbled to the ground, then Crixus tore the ax-blade out and brought it down upon the deathlord's neck, severing the head from the body in one swing. He rolled again back onto his feet and kicked the second draugr deathlord back. It stumbled for a little while, then Crixus followed it up by burying the ax in the draugr's chest. He pulled it back, then swung it around to take off the draugr's head, but the beast held up its great-sword and the ax-head broke from the haft.

"Fuck!" Crixus swore. "Worthless old weapons!"

It swung about, sword ready to hack off Crixus' head. But he was too agile for the long undead beast. He ducked under, but then felt something grabbing at his leg and his duck turned into a fall. He looked down and saw the body of the first draugr that Eirik had killed, its hands still reaching out to him. The deathlord he had slain also was getting back up on its feet, without a head and on one leg only. He reached around, vainly flailing to find a weapon, but his precious burning dagger was not at hand. Despite his bravado, Eirik had a point: a regular dagger wouldn't do much against a heavily armored draugr deathlord.

Suddenly, the deathlord looming above him burst into flames. He looked back and saw Eirik, leaning against the wall of the room, hands open and palms outstretched towards the draugr. Without another thought, Crixus kicked the burning draugr deathlord backwards with his free foot, onto what was left of the headless, legless one that was rising up from the floor. Rising up, he stamped on the arm of the first draugr, then turned about to the last draugr deathlord, which was beating its ax against an old shield.

"_Fus..._" the draugr began, but his Thu'um was cut off as a malachite blade ripped through its dry lungs and, instead of going straight out of its mouth, the force spilled out of the gaping hole in its chest, sending an armored draugr head clanging against the ceiling before it clattered onto the floor and finally came to rest, the light in its blue eyes finally going out. As the body collapsed, Mjoll struggled back onto her feet, the pain in her side where the beast's sword had broken her skin finally healing up.

"You," was the first word Crixus said, directed at Eirik, when at last the draugr fell, the last two burning up, illuminating the room with their rotten bodies. "Since when does a Nord know sorcery?"

"It's a basic spell," Eirik replied. "Many adventurers learn it before setting out."

"Except you didn't learn it in Skyrim, have you?" Crixus asked. "Yes, I know. You've never been to Winterhold. You Nords are afraid of magic, ever since that accident at the Mage's College. You learned that somewhere else, didn't you? And I know where..."

"Can we not focus on the problem at hand?" Mjoll asked.

They sighed, then made their way towards the farthest door, in the direction of the sound of water. All of them were sore and wounded from the encounter, but otherwise well. The tunnel led them up another flight of stairs, a long flight that ended in a tunnel leading off to the left. Eirik was taking the lead, but as he reached the first step, a terrible _clank_ was heard and Mjoll wrapped her hands around him and leaned back, falling backwards down the stairs on top of Crixus.

"What the fuck!" he shouted.

But they had no need to answer his expletives, for the answer soon came: a thing the size of a tree-trunk, capped with a steel head, came swinging down from the ceiling. A battering ram set as an ancient booby-trap. Eirik groaned as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

"I should have known better," he said. "I've been in enough ruins in my day to know these things are never straight-forward."

"Or free of traps," Mjoll added.

"That's why _I_ should go first," Crixus argued. "I have enough Imperial sense to look before I leap, unlike you balls first Nords!"

"Crixus, shut up!"

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes, then took up his torch, lit now from the fires of the draugr, and made his way in the front. The tunnel to the right snaked up another flight of stairs, terminating at the top in an ancient brazier, which Crixus lit with the flames from his torch. There was no other way at the top of the stairs, save for an alcove at the left that ended in pitch black darkness. The sound of rushing water could be heard just beyond.

"It's a dead end," he said. "There's nothing here."

"What about this?" Eirik asked, gesturing to the hole.

"I haven't got any rope," Crixus said. "We could be plunging to our death in some waterfall, just like old Crescius' great-granddad."

"Could you stop whining and at least look and see?"

Crixus groaned, then handed Mjoll his torch. He held out one hand and a ball of blinding white light appeared. He thrust his hand into the gap and the light traveled in an arc all the way into the room. What they saw was a wide, high-roofed cavern-like room, with a large door on the far-side covered in red runes. There was water at the bottom and a few shelves of stone just before them at the brink of the entrance.

"Well?" Eirik asked.

"There's a room down there," Crixus said. "And it looks like a body, could be old Crescius', but there's still no way back up. I'm telling you, it's a dead-end!"

"What's the matter, Imperial?" Eirik laughed. "Afraid of a little challenge?"

"Don't be stupid!" Crixus replied. "I'm not dragging your white ass out of there when you find you can't...wait!"

But it was too late. Eirik had jumped out of the porthole and was standing ten feet down on one of the ledges. There was still at least twenty more feet to go, but the ledges were short and could be reached without much damage. Mjoll crawled up first and began her descent, while a reluctant Crixus followed on at the end.

"What happened to not following us down here?" Eirik asked.

"Might as well," Crixus said. "That magelight spell would fade eventually, which means I can't watch you die properly from up there."

Croxis walked up towards the red-runed door, the sound of bones crunching beneath his feet. Eirik and Mjoll walked over and saw the old, dry bones of what looked like a human. Near at hand were old things that were remarkably preserved in the dryness of the barrow. Two thing drew their attention from the pile of things lying about the bones. One was a great-sword, covered in red runes and the other was an old book, bound in red leather. Eirik took up the sword and Crixus picked up the book: the latter began fanning through it, with Mjoll holding a torch nearby.

"Hmm," Crixus began, as he read it. "This page is marked 30th of Rain's Hand, Tenth Year of the Fourth Era. _'Received a letter from the East Empire Company today. They say that some of the miners broke through the wall in shaft three of Raven Rock Mine and found some ruins.'_ There's a bit more, seemed he had some trouble like this in Cyrodiil. He said he'd bring his assistant with him. '_it'll be nice to see the old house in Solstheim again.'_ It's a journal of Gratian Caerellius, Crescius' great-grandfather."

"What else does it say?" Eirik asked.

Crixus began thumbing through the entries, scanning over them briefly before moving on. "It seems that he arrived in Raven Rock on the Seventh of Second Seed. Most of this is just petty information, something about the Bloodskal. Then...oh wait, here we go!"

"What?"

"This looks important," Crixus said. "Eleventh of Second Seed, 4E10. _'It's been an astonishing day of discovery! After exploring the large chamber beyond the drop-off, I was startled to find the strangest weapon I've ever laid eyes upon sitting on a pedestal of sorts. The blade appears to be flawless, and is emitting a faint chilling glow. Bits of parchment I found about the chamber seem to call this the Bloodskal Blade. Not certain if I should remove it yet, I think I'll sleep on it.'_"

"This blade?" Eirik asked, holding up the red sword. Mjoll ran her hand over the blade.

"It feels enchanted," she said. "I can feel the power in it. I can't tell what it's specific enchantment is, though. I'm not a mage."

"Maybe there will be something in here that explains it," Crixus said, as he began flipping through the pages. "Oh, this isn't good."

"What?" Eirik asked.

"Looks like old Gratian decided to take the weapon from its pedestal," Crixus continued. "That's probably why we didn't see it, missed it in the dark, especially with no sword on it. He lost his friend Millius, attacked by draugr. Here it is, looks like the fourteenth of Second Seed, though there's a question mark here: maybe he wasn't even sure what day it was. _'Exploring has been slow. I can only move for maybe a few minutes at a time before I have to rest. My supplies are running low, and I'm feeling weaker by the hour. The only progress I've made is finding a strange door with markings on it that I've never seen.'_"

They suddenly halted, looking up at the giant door, covered in runes. Though the runes glowed, it gave off no light, only a deep, ominous hum that even the endless murmur of water behind them could not fully assuage.

"_'There appears to be something to them I'm missing,'_" Crixus continued reading. "'_As they've confounded my attempts at getting through. I'll have to study this further in order to make any progress...barely can keep awake.'_ By Hircine, this is grim. Oh wait, here it is. _'I'm fairly certain that the key to the door involves the use of the Bloodskal Blade. When swinging the weapon, I'm noticing a ribbon of mystical energy emanating from it. I think by swinging the sword in different directions, it's possible to manipulate this ribbon and solve whatever puzzle this door presents. I hope to get well enough to put this to the test soon...each swing is a huge effort.'_

"The last entry says this: _'I've lost track of time and my strength is fading. I can't even stand anymore. My wounds refuse to heal. I'm afraid this tomb will become my resting place. If anyone finds this journal, please send these notes to my superiors at the East Empire Company and tell my wife that I love her. May Arkay guide me to my final rest.'_ There is no more."

They sighed collectively, and the noise of it was so loud and dense that it seemed to roar above the hum of the door and the murmur of the water. Eirik looked about and saw, among the bones, the body of a draugr lying near at hand. If any had fallen into the water, they had dissolved long ere this and had contaminated it. There would be no drinking from it, not here, at least.

"It seems he met a grim fate in the end," Eirik said. "Either he succumbed to his wounds or was torn apart by the draugr at this place. Nevertheless, here he met his last stand."

"Now, then," Crixus said. "Let's make use of this sword before we too meet his end as well." He rose to his feet. "Come on, then. You heard what the old man said."

Eirik stood up and gave the sword a swing across. A wave of crimson energy soared out at the runes on the door, and he saw one of the ribbons from Gratian's journal flicker and fade. The magelight faded, leaving only the light of their torches and the runes on the door as the only light in the room. Eirik swung the blade downward, and one of the vertical ribbons faded, leaving only one more horizontal one on the edge of the large door. Eirik swung across again, and the arch faded, leaving only the giant, circular door in the center with a ribbon like a crack running vertically down the center. With one final swing, he sent a wave of red energy into the door and it opened the great door. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief upon this, for now it seemed that they still had hope of escaping.

Crixus went in first, torch held, then came to a halt. In the tunnel beyond could be heard the sound of ax-blades swinging through the air.

"Another trap," he said. "Let me go first."

"Why you?" Eirik asked.

"I'm the more agile of the three of us," he said. "So why not?"

He turned towards the tunnel and took off running. His light disappeared behind a wall of swinging axes, becoming fainter and fainter over and over the farther he went. Then the swinging stopped and his torch ceased to flicker.

"It's clear, come over now!" Crixus called back.

With wary steps, they crossed through the gauntlet, now defunct, and made their way beyond. Here they found a long room. With torches raised, they passed into the room, noticing its high ceiling and a wide wall of stone on the farthest side of the room that was different than the rest of the room. In the midst of the room was a pool of water, whose depth they could not guess without stepping inside. Turning around, they saw the way they had come was flanked by another wide door. They had little time to ponder this, for the sound of rushing water was heard near at hand. From out of the surface of the water there appeared the most powerful creature they had ever encountered: clothed in red robes, with the gray, rotted flesh of a draugr, this thing was clad in a kind of armor that looked more like bone than steel, and wore a mask that obscured the face.

Before Eirik could move, he suddenly shook and collapsed on the floor. Crixus likewise was sent down by a wave of lightning, convulsing and twitching violently. The beast laughed haughtily, then turned its attention to Mjoll. It raised its hands towards her, but she was quick and swung Grimsever at the creature. The armor turned the blow, but the hand that had been sending out waves of lightning was now frozen in ice that seemed as impervious as the stalhrim Crixus had mined from the walls of the barrow hours ago. But that did not stop this monster. With one hand it waved at the emptiness, then sent a wave of lightning at Mjoll. She shook and cried out in pain, falling to one knee, but pushed herself back up.

"Lorkhan's balls!" Crixus cried out.

It was then that Eirik saw the reason for Crixus outcry. The beast had summoned something from out of the darkness, something that Eirik had never seen before. It didn't look like the schematics of dremora he had seen in _Varieties of Daedra_. It looked more like a netch, a floating mass of tentacles, only this was much more threatening and hideous. While the netch had rounded bodies that sat atop slender tendrils, these things were bloated with many short tendrils and two grasping hands with many fingers on the ends. Their heads were those of cuttlefish and in their chests they had an oval mouth lined with teeth. For a moment Eirik thought of Lydia, and immediately he hated these creatures all the more for making in his mind what had been strange and wonderful into something hideous and revolting.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted, summoning the unrelenting force of his Thu'um, the same power that, rumors told, Ulfric had used to shout Torygg the High King to pieces. The thing didn't even quiver in the face of such power, it merely gurgled in some hideous backwards speech and continued floating towards him, slowly yet determinedly.

He reached for his sword, but then remembered that he was holding something much more powerful. Drawing out the Bloodskal blade, he gave it a mighty swing at the creature. The wave of energy slashed at the hideous thing, which quivered under the blow, then continued its slow, determined approach. Eirik swung again, putting all of himself into the blade, and sent another wave of energy at the hideous manifestation. It quivered again and halted, but Eirik wouldn't wait to see how long it would wait. He thrust the blade into the mass of tentacles, a sickening squelching sound made as his blade slashed through wet flesh. He yanked it out of the thing's body, which sloshed as the blade tore it open, and watched with revulsion as it writhed and squirmed on the floor, gurgling like a sick beast of some wicked filth beyond the worst imagining of any daedric prince of which he knew.

His victory was short-lived, for he suddenly collapsed as another wave of lightning struck him, forcing his whole body to constrict and collapse. The shock did not last long, but it was long enough to keep him down and out of the fight Mjoll was currently engaged in with this creature. He saw, near at hand, Crixus was getting up, but was sent down by another wave of lightning. Forcing his nerves to obey, he pushed himself up and ran forward, sword in hand. His boots slipped on the wet stones at the edge of the pool and he fell into the cold, stagnant water. With his clothes soaked and armor water-logged, he pushed himself back up and saw Mjoll was relentlessly hacking the draugr-thing with Grimsever. He had to join in the fight, for her, at least. He crawled out of the water, slipping on the steps, but tried relentlessly to get back on his feet. He didn't have to be a mage to know that it would hurt if he were struck by lightning now, especially soaking wet as he was now. He drew out the Bloodskal blade and drove it forward. It passed through the draugr's arm, severing it in one blow. Suddenly a knife of burning flame dove between the armor and the robes the draugr thing wore. It faded to bluish ash before it could be burned away.

Eirik collapsed to the ground, sputtering and laughing. Crixus coughed as well, but was smiling from one end of his face to the other.

"You know," he said. "For a Nord, you're not half-bad in a fight."

"Is that a compliment?" Eirik asked.

"Don't flatter yourself," Crixus laughed. "You're still a piece of skeever shit. Just...not wholly worthless."

"Get up, boys," Mjoll heaved. "I think we're done here."

"What was that?" Crixus asked.

"Dragon priests," Eirik said. "I've seen them on the walls of the Nord ruins I've ventured in."

"Same," Mjoll added.

"One tough little fucker, I'd say," Crixus said, then kicked at the ash. His boot hit something metal and he halted for moment, picking something up out of the ash. It was the mask of the dragon priest. "Hey, I think we should keep this."

"Aye," Eirik said, somewhat preoccupied. "Still, this..."

He slowly made his way to the farthest end of the room, where the giant, out-of-place stone wall was located. Crixus, with the dragon priest's mask in hand, ran to Eirik's side and approached the wall. Upon it, they saw the words of the ancient tongue of the dragons.

"Can you read this?" Eirik asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Crixus replied. "What do you think _Mul_ means?"

"'_Mul?_'" Eirik asked. "I think I heard something about this before, it's..."

"Strength!" they said as one.

"Over here!" Mjoll's voice shouted. It sounded nervous. Eirik was the first one over, walking as quickly as he could with his still slippery boots. Crixus followed up behind. They found Mjoll standing by a pedestal at the bottom of a winding stairwell. Crixus laughed as he saw the stairs.

"Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "Looks like you'll live to fight another day, Stormcloak."

But Eirik said nothing, for he was looking at what Mjoll was looking at: the pedestal. Upon it sat a thick book, covered in heavy leather with a strange mark upon it: too much it reminded him of the hideous face of that thing the dragon priest had summoned.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, looking at the book.

* * *

**(AN: I had "The Bridge of Khazad-dum" from _Lord of the Rings_ in mind as I was having Crixus reading the entry from Gratian's journal. Phil Dragash does a great reading of it, and I wanted to capture some of that dark and gloominess, especially considering what we meet at the end.)**

**(Black books won't be read yet, at least until we've gone to the next chapter. And I used almost the same words you suggested, _Cyrus_, for the alternate DB [won't be a Redguard from the Oblivion crisis, as that was two hundred years before _Skyrim_, lol]) **


	38. The Temple of Miraak

**(AN: Well, we made it out and now the main quest has to continue.)**

**(Hmm, I could have sworn I played it on the PS2, instead of the PC. Either way, I remember it looking better than it does on the PS3. Also, yay, welcome back _Cyrus_. Your review made me go back and look at that chapter, because your response sounded like I was doing something right, but I don't remember that...also, I wanna see that chart. [there wasn't a link or anything to copy, just - (slash)]. I mean, I researched the infamous Donner Party and they had a heavy snowfall that winter and the stumps of the trees they cut down looked about 12 feet tall. Now picture that, but over the course of almost two hundred years.)**

**(But for the rest of you who have been favoriting/following with no reviews...come on, say something!)**

* * *

**The Temple of Miraak**

It was night when they arrived in Raven Rock, laden with their loot from the mine. They came not from out of the mine entrance but from the old ruins north of the town of Raven Rock: the Bloodskal barrow. They made their way through the ash-fields back towards the town. It was dark and if anyone inhabited the ruined towers, they did not attack them. Perhaps they were hiding from the thick ash-fall earlier that day, as had the people of Raven Rock. It was indeed ashy, and Eirik, soaked as he had been from the battle with the dragon priest, was now coated in a heavy layering of gray-white ash from head to toe.

They retired to the Retching Netch, but Eirik had to wait outside and shake off the ash from his boots and armor. Washing was completely out of the question, as the century or so of ash-fall from the Red Mountain left almost all of the sources of water in this part of Solstheim contaminated or gone altogether. There was still the sea, but that was hardly an option, as it was freezing cold, more so than in most parts of Skyrim, and undrinkable. So Eirik had to clean himself off without washing his clothes, which was also highly uncomfortable, as his clothes were now soaked, ash-sodden and freezing. When at last he was in a more presentable situation, he gird himself again and entered the inn, where he found Mjoll and Crixus already sitting at a table, with food and drink purchased. Eirik practically buried his face in his tankard while the others ate quietly: it had been a long day, and they had had more time to relax and recover from the ordeal in the barrow than he had.

"Are you okay?" Mjoll asked.

"Aye," Eirik gasped, taking a breath after his long drink.

"Good," Crixus said. "Because we're moving out tomorrow. I've been speaking with the Redoran guard and they said that winds from Atmora have blown the ash-flow from the mountain out towards the east. Ash-fall will be lighter, so we should take advantage of that and move early."

"Move where?" Eirik asked.

"To the old ruins in the center of the island," Crixus stated in an agitated voice. "People in Raven Rock keep sending me there, they have no clue about Miraak, or at least they say so."

"What do you think we'll find up there?" Eirik asked.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need your help, would I?" Crixus retorted. "Now finish up here and get some sleep."

"Where will you sleep?" Mjoll asked.

"That's my business," Crixus said, then downed his tankard and left the table. Eirik returned to his drink while Mjoll watched the Imperial speak with a nubile Dunmer woman wearing a dress with a low neckline. She scoffed, then turned back to Eirik.

"Such a shame," she said. "I was just starting to respect him as well." She took her knife and began cutting a slice of eidar goat cheese to go with her bread. "There's something I want to show you, though."

"What's that?" Eirik asked. "And can't it wait until morning? I'm damn tired after the fight in the barrow and all that ash and water..."

"It won't take but a few moments," she assured him. "Besides, this is the best time to do this."

"Do what?" he asked.

"I can't tell you!" Mjoll said, biting her lip. "It's a surprise." Eirik chuckled. "What?"

"I have a hard time imagining you capable of surprises," he said. "Well, you talk my ears off with all the stories of your adventures, it's like you can't keep anything secret."

"Oh, but I do," Mjoll smiled. "Now hurry up and come outside!"

Eirik drained his tankard and ate the last of his roast goat leg. He barely had time to wipe the bits of meat and blood from his beard and lips when Mjoll grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his chair and up the stairs to the top level of the Retching Netch. Out through the doors they went, Mjoll leading Eirik through the ash-laden streets of Raven Rock to the outskirts of town. She halted at the shore-line, dotted with rocks whose ash had been blown or eroded off by the winds and waves from the sea. She climbed atop a large rock, beckoning Eirik to join her on top. He climbed up with her, feeling the cold wind from the ultimate north upon his face. Mjoll told him to look east, towards the jetty they had stood upon where they found the people working their portentous work.

On the edge of shore, there were a few large things floating out among the shallow water. These were the netches, docile creatures native to Morrowind and Solstheim. They had bulbous round bodies with many long, thin tendrils and feelers which hung from the bottom of their disproportionately large bodies. The peaceful, almost song-like, bellows they made gave the impression that these were friendly creatures who would not attack unless provoked: their song also was rather relaxing as well.

"Netches are one of the most beautiful creatures in Morrowind," Mjoll said with a smile. "They are so peaceful and gentle, and their singing is better than any bard's tale of blood and gore I've ever heard. Don't get me wrong, I love a good fight, but I've spent much time in the wilds to understand the subtle beauty of the outside world."

Eirik observed them and nodded his head in agreement. But his eyes strayed back to Mjoll: beautiful and strong. For a moment, he wanted to say something, to speak his mind to her. But he held his tongue: for her, there was still the thrill of adventure and she would not give up her treasured invincibility for anyone. Gods above knew that if he were in her shoes, he wouldn't give invincibility in battle for any price. It seemed that, no matter what he felt about her, it would not end well if he suggested that.

"Do you know the marriage customs of our people, Eirik?" Mjoll asked.

"What?" he retorted.

"I remember when I first came back to Skyrim," she began. "After journeying so long throughout other parts of Tamriel. It was strange, seeing how your own people wed after seeing how other cultures performed the wedding rites. Do you know that Argonians _only_ present each other with wedding bands? Rather than buying a ring, the one who is courting the other makes the ring him or herself. Fascinating!

"Regardless of individual customs, those who worship the Divines all have the same traditions. Those who worship Mara don an amulet of hers, both as a supplication for her blessing and to let others know that they are undergoing the rites for marriage. They then go to the ones they love and ask for their hand. If he or she says yes..." She turned to face Eirik. "If she says yes, then she wears an amulet as well, which they both wear until after the ceremony, and they are bound with their own wedding bands."

"Why are you telling me this?" Eirik asked.

"I'm sorry," Mjoll blushed. "I shouldn't have said anything. I just...ahem! Thought you would be interested in watching the netches. They often come out when the ash-fall is lighter, they're quite a sight to behold."

"Oh, yes," Eirik sighed, but it was an uneasy sigh. His eyes were trained still on Mjoll, who leaned forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. In that moment, that one touch said more than anything they had ever said between the two of them. It was a silent promise, a vow, that no matter what would happen, she would still be there, a sword at his side.

* * *

Morning found Eirik ready before Crixus came knocking at their door. In fact, he was able to get dressed quietly and make his way to the common room and order breakfast while Mjoll was still waking up. After a hearty, warm soup, bread and butter, Eirik pulled out something wrapped in cloth. But when he unfurled the cloth, it was empty. Crixus suddenly appeared at his side, holding a still warm sweet roll in his hands.

"Lost something?" Crixus asked.

"Do you have nothing better to do than steal my sweet roll?" Eirik asked.

"You should keep a hold on these," Crixus said. "I was in Whiterun once and that annoying little Redguard brat and two of her friends tried to steal one off me. I gave her a sound thrashing and sent her back to her house for more. Still, good to see you haven't been shagging sheep last night and are ready to hit the open road. We've got a lot of ground to cover today, so eat up."

"What about you?" Eirik asked.

"I've already eaten," Crixus said with a wink, then threw the treasured sweet roll back to Eirik.

When at last Mjoll was ready, they finished breakfast then waited for Eirik to conclude his business with a Dunmer merchant, who sold general supplies. This time, unlike the mine, they would be going into the ruins in the midst of the island prepared for whatever they might find. He came back disgruntled, but supplied.

"It's that damn stone," he grumbled. "Practically everyone in Solstheim is over there, praying or chanting or whatever, including Fethis, the general goods merchant. The elf who's his replacement is charging almost triple for all of his goods. Says if I don't like it, I can go somewhere else, only there _is_ nowhere else, not in Raven Rock, at least."

"Did you get what you wanted or not?" Eirik asked.

"Of course I got it," Crixus replied.

Without any further ado, they took their things and made their way out of Raven Rock. They went straight southward, towards the Bulwark. The town guards told them to be ware of ash-spawn, but otherwise said nothing. They approached the giant wall that was the Bulwark, whose only entrance was a tunnel built on wooden support beams that looked like it belonged in the Raven Rock mine. Crixus told them that _this_ used to be the southern gate of the town, back in the first six or so years of its existence prior to the eruption of Dagoth-Ur.

Just beyond the gate, the path sloped dramatically upwards, burying the ground in a sloping ramp of thick-packed ash. This ash did not flake off and stick to them as much as the loose ash on the plains above did, for this slope had been trod and trampled upon for almost two hundred years and the ash had become packed in so well that it was now part of the ground. But this was hardly the most shocking feature of the Bulwark. They climbed up the slope, which led onto fields of dirty gray-white ash, with here and there the tops of trees sticking out of the ash like bones on a pike. It looked like a dead wasteland, like the rumors, hushed and fearful, of the dreaded plains of Oblivion, the home of the daedra. Looking back, the three of them saw that the level of the ash-plains came up to the top of the Bulwark. If they had any doubts about the effectiveness of the Bulwark, they were all dismissed by this.

"Look at that," Crixus stated. "A few feet of stone and mortar is all that's keeping two hundred years of ash from burying Raven Rock."

"Magnificent," Eirik said. "And terrifying as well."

"It's nothing short of a miracle," Mjoll said.

"While I don't hold with miracles," Crixus added. "I think I'm inclined to believe you." He sighed. "Come, we have work to do." One by one, they left this grim scene and followed Crixus on their way into the ashen wasteland.

"Mjoll, I have a question," Eirik spoke up.

"Hmm?"

"Well, the ash doesn't exactly flow across the ground like water," Eirik began. "It comes from the clouds, right?"

"Not the clouds exactly," she replied. "The ash-cloud from the Red Mountain passes over the southern end of the island and the southern winds blow the ash over to Solstheim."

"Exactly," Eirik said. "So why isn't the whole island covered in ash as thick as this around us?" Eirik looked down at his feet. There was no more ground beneath them on this side, just more and more ash.

"It's not like this everywhere," she said. "From what I've heard, the farther north you go, the ash gets thinner. From the stories I heard in Morrowind, the northernmost side of the island is untouched by ash. My guess is that the north winds keep it relatively safe, or else the winds that carry the ash this far die out before covering all of Solstheim. Either way, the amount of ash you see here is nothing compared to what is seen in Morrowind. Whole towns are covered, cities and tall towers, the entire landscape is a desert of ash."

"And what do the precious Eight do about it?" Crixus asked from the rear.

"Oh, shut up!" Eirik sighed.

"I'll talk if I want to and there's nothing you can do about it, Nord," Crixus sneered.

"Just let it go!" Mjoll said, placing a hand of warning on Eirik's shoulder as he reached to draw out his sword. With a sigh, he eased his hand off his sword and followed on after Crixus.

* * *

By and by, the land around them began to slope upwards, leading towards a tall summit in the center of the island. In some places, the sloping cliff-sides of the summit were so steep that the ash had fallen off, leaving the bare rock visible. Though the sides of the cliff were as gray as the ash, the earthen grays of the granite as opposed to the pale-grays of the ash was a sign of hope: no matter what ill betide this land, the bones of Shor would endure for all time. They continued onward, realizing shortly that the ash was starting to become thinner about their feet. Here and there, the reddish-blue tongues of scathecraw plants would be seen, lightly covered in gray ash yet poking out their spiky leaves. The ash here was now so thin that, just beneath their feet, they could see what they had not seen since leaving Skyrim: the earth beneath their feet.

After about two hours of marching through areas where the ash was little more than two inches deep, the ash gave way all together, as did many of the plants. The familiar chill of the cold northern air was blowing down upon them. Here they paused and looked about to get their bearings. Eirik, who walked in the rear with Mjoll, looked about while Crixus walked back to join them.

"What can you see?" the Cyrodilian asked.

"I can see the coast from here," he said, pointing out to the sea, hidden beneath the cloud of ash from Vvardenfell. "And...yes, there it is! Raven Rock! By the looks of things, we've turned by slow degrees northward."

"Aye, as I knew we should," Crixus stated. "Remember, I was here while you two were idling in Skyrim. I've had a chance to ask around, sound out the location of this temple. Just follow my lead and we should be there by noon."

"What time is it?" Eirik asked.

"We're in the northern part of Tamriel," Mjoll stated. "So the sun should be somewhere in the southern sky." She looked out southward, then shook her head. "I can see nothing, it's hidden under the shadow of the cloud from Red Mountain."

They walked onward, following the inclining slope of the mountainside that was now covered, not in ash, but in snow: good clean snow, like the stuff in Skyrim. Eirik laughed when he saw the snow and Mjoll sighed as he had heard before. When Crixus heard this, he laughed haughtily but said no more. Eirik didn't care: Crixus was Cyrodilian, they weren't used to this kind of weather. He would probably find the Rift, Falkreath or even Bruma too cold for his liking.

The land was now covered in snow and ice, which crunched beneath their boots as they walked. It felt good to feel something underfoot beside the dreaded, damnable ash. Suddenly, Crixus called for a halt. Eirik ran to his side at the front of the line and came to a halt as he saw what had made the Cyrodilian pause in horror. Lying on the ground in less than an inch of snow were the bones of a dragon. Eirik reached out his hand and brushed the snow off the skull of the dragon. He felt it beneath his hands and realized that there was something wrong with this dragon. The bones were cold and lifeless, no quiet whisper of the sleeping soul which he had felt when slaying a dragon as its soul was absorbed into his body. This dragon was dead. That made both of them uneasy. Looking about, they saw more such bones buried in the snow: they had come upon a dragon's graveyard, one that was not made by the ancient Nords when they first defeated Alduin. Into this grim scene they heard dark words chanted mindlessly, carried down to them on the winds.

"_Here is the shrine...__That they have forgotten..._"

With wary steps, they walked onward, through the snowy drifts. They began to hear more clearly the portentous words, spoken in the grim, monotonous tone of those with no control over what they do, no hope of release, only the doom of eternal servitude.

"_Here do we toil...That we might remember..._"

They passed on through the snow, the howling wind and the grim voices of the chanters as they toiled away pounding relentlessly from above. But then, as they approached, they heard another sound, ringing in dissonant harmony outside of the grim cacophony of chanting voices. Yet the voice was not dissonant itself, like the others, but mindful, intelligent. It spoke with reason, with purpose...

"_B_y_ night we reclaim..._"

"Ysra, can you hear me?" the new voice asked.

"..._What by day was stolen..._"

The voice was that of a woman, a Nordic voice, as strong and beautiful as that of Mjoll herself. Yet it in itself was unique, emphasizing second syllables in her speech, and the accent was different than that of the Lioness.

"_Far from ourselves..._"

"You must leave this place!"

"_...He grows ever near to us..._"

At last, they could see it over the top of the snowy peak. It stood on the summit of the snowy mountain that had been the graveyard of the dragons. Giant walls and pillars of stone unlike anything they had seen in Skyrim, Cyrodiil or Solstheim. Dark and shapeless, grim and tall, they radiated a chill of cold that was greater than the wind or snow. But it was not finished, not yet. They knew what would happen when it was finished...

"_Our eyes once were blinded_..._Now through him do we see_..."

They could now see the walls of this unfinished ruin of a temple, which must never be completed. Gathered about it, working their doomed task, chanting their endless drone, were several Dunmer guards in bronze bonemold armor. But more among them were Nords clad in thick hides and pelts which made them look twice as large.

"You _must_ fight against what is controlling you!" the voice of the Nord woman pleaded. "Do you hear me? We _must_ leave this place!"

"_Our hands once were idle_..._Now through them does he speak_..."

Then they saw the woman. She was Nordic, that much they could tell even from her frame and the back of her body. She was clad in steel, of the Nordic fashion and yet different than anything of which they had seen in Skyrim or out of it. The armor was also fur-lined and the shoulder-pads looked like the faces of dragons. They approached the brink of the hill, which caved inward to the center of the ruinous temple: they had not set a single foot beyond the stones of the temple when the Nordic woman turned about and drew an ax out of her belt.

"You there!" she shouted at the newcomers. "Why are you here? What brings you to this place?"

"Who are you?" Eirik asked, hand reaching to the hilt of his sword.

"I am Frea of the Skaal," the Nord woman replied. "And you?"

"I am Eirik the Dragonborn," he answered. "This is Mjoll the Lioness and..."

"Crixus," the Cyrodilian stated. "Just Crixus. And why are you here?"

"To save my people," she said, turning to the Nords who were toiling away at the ruins around them. "Or if not, to avenge them."

"_And when the world shall listen_..._And when the world shall see_..."

"Save them from what?" Eirik asked.

"_And when the world remembers_..._That world shall cease to_ _be."_

"I'm not sure," Frea said. "Almost two months ago, something happened. It's been taking control of most of the people in Solstheim. They forget themselves and work on these horrible creations...corrupting the Stones and the land itself."

"You have no idea what it could be?" Crixus asked.

"My father, Stron Crag-Strider, elder shaman of my people, says that Miraak has returned to Solstheim. But...how could that be?"

"It's true," Eirik stated. "He tried to have me killed."

"And me." Crixus added.

"Then we have common purpose to venture into the temple below," Frea said with a sorrowful sigh. "Let's go, now. There's nothing more I can do here. The Tree Stone and my friends are beyond my help...for now."

"Are you here by yourself?" Crixus asked.

"There aren't many of us unaffected by this dwimmer-curse," Frea stated. "We who remain reside in the Skaal Village to the north-west."

"Then how are you unaffected?" Mjoll asked.

"It's because of this," Frea replied, holding up an amulet that sat upon a chain on her neck. It was rather crude, made of leather and with a golden icon hanging from the middle, ornamented with tiny animal teeth. "It protects me from whatever has taken hold of my people, but it's the only one of its kind."

"So," Eirik said. "We should find a way into the temple, shouldn't we?"

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," a voice said from behind. "Your luck's just ran out!"

* * *

**(AN: There will be epic happenings, so don't worry. But I just couldn't resist the sweet-roll joke. I'm building up to the arrow-in-the-knee, and I think I could do one more about the burdens, because, after all, there needs to be a little bit of humor: not jokes every two second, but enough to make it enjoyable [as in for more than just blood and sex, lol].)**

**(So, Frea...she doesn't even have a category on here! Poor Skaal [or as I call them, hipster-Nords. "Oh, we don't worship the Divines, that's too mainstream. We worship the All-Maker, you've probably never heard of him." Lol, I kid]. If this were a movie, I would choose Katheryn Winnick as Frea, since she looks bad-ass enough to be a Nord, but I don't exactly see her as physically imposing enough to be Mjoll, so yeah, she's more of a Frea in my mind.)**


	39. Miraak

**(AN: So I finished the _Dawnguard_ missions...epic! I've got plenty of awesome stuff to show later on, it will be epic. I've also written a bit of an outline for where I want the story to go, but I'm considering changing it, since I'm not sure if I want the final mission to happen in 4E201 or later. Part of me wants to drag the story out, since I want it to be lengthy and cover as much of the missions/character development, etc. as possible, while another sees the World-Eater as a very real and present danger that has to be dealt with immediately.)**

**(Please review! I love your rather interesting yet sarcastic reviews, _Cyrus_, but when people favorite this story and don't review, it's like, huh? Come on, say something! Even if it's a comment on an older chapter or something about a newer one, I want to know what you think! Also, thank you once again for your dedicated reviews. The link _still_ didn't work, but from what I've been seeing from in-game, there is still ash coming from Dagoth-Ur, and if it is really that far away and yet the ash-cloud is _still_ visible...yeah, that's just my thoughts. And I like the chant, it's dark and monotonous and cthonic and I wanted us to be reminded of just what's at stake with Miraak. Don't worry, after this chapter we learn the Bend Will shout and you won't have to bear through hearing/reading that chant.)**

**(Yes, I changed the number of cultists here from two to about five, since we're now three people strong.)**

* * *

**Miraak**

"Down!" Frea shouted.

Eirik practically fell to the ground at the strong command of the Nord woman's voice. Above his head the rush of wind was heard and he turned about to see an ax-blade buried in the face of one of the cultists standing behind him. These, he guessed, were the ones who had spoken their threat. Looking on the sides of the hill, he saw that they were completely surrounded. He drew out his sword while nearby Mjoll readied Grimsever and Crixus drew two of his daggers. Two daggers went flying through the air and buried themselves in the throat of one of the cultists, who fell to the stone floor of the ruined temple courtyard.

One of the cultists nearby jumped on top of Eirik and tackled him to the ground. He punched it in the face, but his fist hit the mask and it barely made a dent, except his hand hurt. He kicked it in the groin and, thank Talos, it was a male Dunmer. So stunned, he pulled Frea's ax out of the dead cultist and ran it through the living one's chest. Overhead, he saw Mjoll throw one cultist against one of the stone pillars, then thrust her mighty Grimsever down into its chest. The last one ran at them, but Frea tackled this one to the ground and buried her last ax in its face.

"You fight well...for outsiders," Frea said, as she pulled her other ax out of the fallen cultist.

"So do you, for a Nord," Crixus said, taking out his daggers.

"I am Skaal," she stated.

"Okay, for a Skaal," Crixus added, rolling his eyes.

"You said you knew a way into the temple?" Eirik asked.

"I think," Frea said. "I've seen the cultists use it, but I never went there myself. I saw my people here and chose to try to rescue them instead. Do you truly wish to help me? There should be no delay."

"I understand," Eirik answered. "Can you take us there?"

"Aye," Frea replied. "This way."

Following the Nord woman, they walked over to the circular pit of the temple, where there was an alcove cut into the rock. Into this there was a tunnel that spiraled downward. Crixus cast a spell of candlelight to give them light, as they were still too close for the lighting of torches. At the bottom of the stairs, however, they halted and torches were passed out and lit. In the light they saw a wide room of stone carved in the Nordic fashion. This seemed odd, as most of the people in Solstheim were Dunmer. Then again, they had passed through the Bloodskal barrow, which meant that there had been at least a few Nords in this land once upon a time.

"Looks like storerooms," Crixus said as he looked into one of the rooms. "I think we should check these rooms for supplies before we go any further."

"Please, make it quick," Frea said. "The more time we spend, the more this curse harms my people."

Mjoll and Crixus began searching the rooms while Eirik decided to speak more with Frea. He had not ventured into Solstheim and was curious to see that any Nordic people lived here. He wanted to have a word or two with her and decided to do so.

"Frea, am I right?" he began.

"Yes?"

"Tell me more about your people," Eirik began. "I've never heard of the Skaal."

"We have lived in Solstheim for many generations," she replied. "Our people are tied to this land itself. We try to serve the All-Maker, to live in balance with the land: not exploit it as _others_ would." Eirik got the distinct impression that the 'others' of which she spoke referred to Nords like himself, not just the people of the outside like the Dunmer or the Imperials.

"Who is the All-Maker?" Eirik asked, changing the subject in the growing unease.

"He is what he is," Frea said, as though his question were one that needed no other answer.

"Uh, a better answer would suffice." Eirik chuckled.

"He is the maker and sustainer of life," Frea began. "From him, life flows into all things like a great river. When something dies, its spirit returns to the All-Maker, who reshapes it into something new and returns it to the world to continue the process of life." She laughed at his apparent blank expression. "What is it?"

"You don't worship the Nine?"

"The Nine?" she asked with a quizzical expression. "Who...what are the Nine?"

"The Divines," Eirik replied. "I thought all things in Tamriel worshiped the Nine Divines."

"Eight, Stormcloak!" Crixus shouted from one of the rooms.

"There are _Nine!_" Eirik said through gritted teeth. "Talos the god of heroes, Akatosh the god of time, Arkay the god of life and death, Dibella the goddess of beauty, Julianos the god of wisdom, Kynareth the goddess of nature, Mara the goddess of love, Stendarr the god of justice and Zenithar the god of labor."

"What a list you've made!" Frea exclaimed. "But these names mean nothing to me. There is only the All-Maker."

"Oi, don't let this bastard fool you," Crixus interjected, walking out of the room he was looting with torch in hand. "Talos is not a god, he wasn't even that good of a man to begin with. Now the daedra, that's where the _real_ power is at. The daedric princes I know of are Azura of dusk and dawn, Boethiah the Plotter, Clavicus Vile the Dealer, Hircine the Hunter, Malacath the patron of the spurned, Mehrunes Dagon the Destroyer, Mephala the Spider, Molag Bal the Harvester, Nocturnal the Night Mistress, Hermaeus Mora the Hoarder of Knowledge..."

"Your list is even longer!" Frea laughed. "These I know of, at least a few of them. Azura is known to the Dunmer, the other people who live on this island. They have left us alone more or less since the time of our elders. Hircine we know of, the lord of the Bloodmoon, though he will not come to this land, not yet at least. Herma-Mora I know, though only from what my father told me. Though we know of these ones, we do not worship them as others do. The All-Maker is our devotion."

Crixus said nothing, but gave Eirik a knowing glance before returning to his work.

"You speak of many strange things," she said. "Perhaps when we return to my village, you can speak with Morwen."

"Is she your mother? An elder?" Eirik asked.

At this, Frea's countenance fell. "My mother is dead."

"I'm sorry."

"She died when I was very young," Frea began. "She was caught in a snowstorm while gathering firewood."

"What a horrible way to go," Eirik commented.

"It is the way of the world," Frea sighed. "Life is a constant struggle. Between the wolves, the weather and now Miraak and the ash from the south, even a simple task like gathering wood for the fire can turn deadly in an instant. It is because of this that we take nothing for granted: _we_ can't afford to." Once again, Eirik felt as though this young Skaal woman were judging him.

"Why not move somewhere else?" he asked. "Someplace safer."

"Oh no, we are bound to this land," Frea said, shaking her head. "We are like the great pine trees, whose roots run as deep as the tree is tall. The land and the Skaal are one and to remove us from our land would be the same as removing the tree from the earth. I know, this must sound strange to you, but the thought of leaving our village is just as strange to us."

Eirik sighed, thinking back on his own life. Falkreath had been his home until the death of his parents, and then...then _that_ happened. Yet he knew what she meant about there being a constant connection to the land of his nativity: for better or for worse, Skyrim was his home.

"You mentioned Miraak before," he spoke up. "What do you know about him?"

"His tale is as old as Solstheim itself," Frea began. "He served the dragons before their fall from power, as most did. My father said he held the highest place in their rule, a priest of their order, I think. I'm not sure what that means, maybe it's like being shaman or something. Anyway, as the story goes, most of the priests served the dragons without question, but not Miraak. He rebelled against them, made his own path, but his actions cost him dearly. The stories I've heard said that he sought to claim Solstheim for his own and protect himself in the process: the dragons destroyed him for it. Or at least that's what the stories said. Now the elders speak of his return in hushed tones and this dwimmer-curse that has enslaved my people...it leaves one to wonder, doesn't it?"

"There could be truth in those stories," Eirik said. "In Skyrim, men thought dragons were only legends until they returned."

"Hmm," Frea murmured nonchalantly. She saw the smile that crept upon Eirik's face and giggled. "What?"

"I never thought I'd see the day when someone was calm at the mention of dragons."

"We do not fear the rumors of dragons," Frea said with an air of confidence. "They are just one of the trials of this world. The All-Maker will protect the Skaal, as it has been for generations."

Moments later, Crixus and Mjoll appeared, both of them with sacks that were now bulging with goods. Crixus voted that they keep the bags here, to be picked back up upon their return. They agreed and went forward, weapons drawn, down the long tunnel that sloped slightly downward into the darkness. While they walked, Crixus whispered near Eirik.

"Quite a self-important braggart, that one," he said. "And I thought you Skyrim Nords were stuck up your own arses."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"Weren't you listening?" Crixus began. "All that talk about being better than everyone else because they worship one blind god instead of many or that they worship the land and are afraid of the outside world. And how she talked about dragons? Like her people were safe from something called 'World-Eater'! Tch!"

"Be wary of traps," Frea called back. "There's no telling what could be down here. But there will likely be many and everywhere."

They walked on in silence, with only cold stone walls on either side. The path went steadily downward by many stairs. A turn to the left and then they found themselves in what looked like a wide room. Frea was about to go forward when Crixus called for a halt. With torch held up high, he looked down at the tiles upon the stone floor.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, his hand hovering over one of the tiles. "Do you see this?" He pushed down upon the plate, then stepped back as the sound of tiny things whistling through the air could be heard. Several volleys were fired into the darkness before them, so many that even Crixus couldn't count. When at last the arrows skittered to the ground, he picked one up and sniffed the tip.

"Poison," he said. "She's right, though. Keep on the look-out."

They continued onward, though Crixus fell back to Eirik's side and continued speaking to him in the hoarse whisper which, but for the sound of their footfalls and the clinking armor of Eirik, Mjoll and Frea, echoed off the bare stone walls.

"Are you sure you're not just speaking out of your hatred for Nords?" Eirik asked.

"Are you sure you're not stupid?" Crixus replied. "It's folly for these people to sit out in the cold wastes, rejecting civilization and order just for the sake of some blind and deaf nature spirit. Living like animals in the cold won't last long, not with the dragons about and the land in turmoil with the Red Mountain. They need the Empire as much as you in Skyrim do."

"What makes you think we need the Empire?" Eirik asked. "Especially when we sent our sons to battle in the War and you let the Thalmor take away the beliefs of our fathers?"

"Spoken like a true sucker of Ulfric Stormcloak's long-sword," Crixus replied smugly. "Nevertheless, Skyrim is part of the Empire. There's almost no land in Skyrim for farming, so where will you get food if your Ulfric Stormcloak gets his way? Not from Cyrodiil and most certainly not from Elsweyr or Black Marsh, not when your precious Ulfric treats their people like dogs."

"You mean like the way the Thalmor treat the Nords?"

"If you're going to be a fucking idiot, just shut up already," Crixus said.

"Hold!" Frea called from the front of the line. "There's a gate up here. We can't get through."

"Have you tried looking for a chain or a lever to open the door?" Crixus asked.

Moments passed, and then the sound of chains clanking against themselves were heard and Frea announced that the way was clear once again. They passed through into a wide room with a lower level separated by a guard-rail of wood. In the light of the torches, they could see iron cages hanging grimly from the ceiling. There was no wind this far down, only the sound of their breath and the creaking of rusty chains as their heavy cargo swayed beneath them.

"I do not wish to imagine the kinds of things that happened in this chamber," Frea said grimly, her voice echoing off the stone walls. She approached one of the nearest caves, her torch shedding light on a skeleton leaning against the sides of the cage, its dishonored grave. "But I can't help asking who were these people...these poor souls trapped here? What tortures did they suffer at Miraak's hands? Was it in service to the dragons or his own purposes?"

Behind them, the sound of a heavy stone lid hitting the floor boomed loudly in their ears. A torch was waved in that direction and the glint of torchlight was seen against old steel. A draugr was rising from its ancient tomb. Then a growl was heard and another set of shuffling feet were heard.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" one of the draugr spoke.

Crixus was thrown across the room and hit the wall hard. The other draugr near at hand swung an ax at Eirik, but the blow was turned by his armor. He punched its face in with his fist, then drew out his sword and hacked off its leg, sending it down. As it was crawling to get him, he thrust down again.

"No...you...don't!" Crixus groaned, rising up from the wall where he had fallen. "_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The draugr flew back across the side of the room and struck the wall. As one, Mjoll and Eirik thrust their swords into its body until the rotten corpse moved no more. As Eirik was cleaning his long-sword, he turned to Crixus with a surprise look on his face.

"What?"

"It's...it's just...I don't know, I've never heard you shout like that before..." Eirik said with in amazement.

"Why not?" Crixus replied. "I'm Dragonborn, just like you."

"But why haven't you used those before?"

"I'm not going to win by using some cheap tricks of gods I don't believe in," Crixus replied. "My skills will determine the outcome of my battles."

They made their way to the edge of the pit in the center of the room, where there was a stone stairway leading down into the lower level. With torches lit they descended in the dark. Down the stairs they went, which wound about twice in a squarish spiral around the edge of the inside of the pit. The tunnel continued to descend until they were so far down, they lost all sense of time. They met another iron gate, which they were able to open after a little bit of searching. Through the draugr ruins they went, with darkness their only companion and cold stone all about them. There was a fire-breathing trap which Mjoll had stepped through, but was otherwise unharmed. Once through the door, they entered a long corridor with whooshing sounds that reminded Crixus of the gauntlets they had experienced before.

"I'm not going down there," Frea said.

"But what about your people?" Eirik asked.

"It would be foolish to attempt it," she added.

"Alright, let's see what I can do," Crixus stated. He ran through the gauntlet, sometimes running, sometimes dodging, until he reached the other side and they heard a lever being pushed. The swinging axes halted and the others made their way through to the now empty hall. Past a pair of wooden doors bound in iron, they walked through a hallway lined with full skeletons chained to the walls. Frea halted as she gazed at them.

"What's wrong?" Eirik asked. "Are you afraid of death?"

"Skaal do not fear death," Frea replied. "For us, life never truly ends. Death is just a passage from one form into the next. When our bodies fail, we return to the All-Maker and be born anew."

"Sounds awful," Crixus grumbled.

"It is the way of things," Frea said, ignoring his comment. "Still, these bones...I know not what Miraak learned that gave him reason to turn on his masters, but his path seems to have been a cruel one."

They went onward, encountering little other than a few draugr which were easily slain. Between Frea's axes, Crixus' knives, Grimsever and the Bloodskal sword, none of the draugr stood a chance. Down, down, down they went, into rooms where even the braziers and torch-niches on the walls were either gone or burned out. Only the glare of their dying torches gave them any light in this dark tunnel. At last they came to a long room with several iron bookshelves, tables and several pots with gold coins. At the farthest end of the room was a second room where Frea and the group came to a halt before a flat stone wall at the far end. There was no niche, crack or crevice that showed any indication of a door.

"Dead end," she breathed in refusal. "Impossible! There must be something more, look around, look for anything. I'll search the dining room, and tell you if I find anything.

With torches in hand, they split up, searching the walls and floors for anything. Crixus made his way over to Eirik, with whom he was growing more and more fond with sharing words with in their past time.

"Seriously," Crixus chuckled. "Eternally reincarnated? That would be horrible, coming back to an awful world full of pain and death?"

"To each their own," Eirik added.

"That kind of foolish permissiveness will be the death of these people," Crixus added. "They have to be more open to civilization and progress."

"Over here!" Mjoll called out.

They followed the sound of Mjoll's voice until they found an alcove in one of the tunnels connecting the dead end store room with the dining room. Here there was a pillar with a handle which Mjoll lifted and turned.

"I knew it!" Frea exclaimed as the sound of stone grinding against itself was heard. "This way!" She ran back to the dining room, where a section of the side wall had slid aside, showing a pathway that looked more like a mineshaft. The others scrambled after her, torches lit, and passed through into the darkness. Beyond there were more rooms with twisting hallways and wide rooms filled with nothing but ruined books.

"Wait," Frea called out. "Here's something. I've seen this before, several times on the sides of the tunnels, but I don't recognize the imagery."

With torches raised, they approached the statue and found what looked like a three-headed beast carved in iron, though it looked somewhat like a dragon without wings.

"Over here," Crixus said. "There's something in front of this statue." He knelt down and felt at an iron grate. After some searching they found a pull-chain and the grating fell away, showing them a winding wooden staircase that led downward once again. They passed on through again, though by this time, even Crixus was growing restless from being underground for so long.

"It must be getting on to evening," he said. "I don't know how much more I can stand of this."

"Getting weak are you?"

"Oh shut up, Nord," Crixus retorted. "I'm surprised you're not groveling on all fours, begging for food right about now."

"Maybe I'm not what you thought I was," Eirik retorted.

"Maybe you're full of skeever-shit," the Cyrodilian replied.

Down the stairs they went again, leading to another corridor and another set of stairs. At the bottom here they found the rooms had turned round with lit braziers in the center, fashioned in the shape of opened dragon mouths with flames in the mouths. Here they refreshed their torches and walked on carefully.

"I don't like this place," Frea said, eying the statues suspiciously. "It's like these statues may come alive at any moment."

"Afraid of statues now, are you?" Crixus asked.

"It's a valid fear, you know," Mjoll stated. "I remember the time I went to Valenwood, there was a tribe of indigenous creatures who..."

"Shh!" Frea hushed. "Don't you hear that?"

"What?" Eirik asked. "It's just us."

"I know," she said. "It's too quiet. We're being watched, I think. Be on your guard: this quiet won't last very long."

"Ugh, more stairs?" Crixus groaned as he pulled a lever and a section of the wall opened up to show the way forward. "That alone might deter the unwary from venturing into this damn ruin."

At last they came to a large room that was lit by many braziers that were active. There were many stairs leading to the top portion of the room on which stood a grotesque statue with a fat body full of eyes, no head and six long arms, four of which looked like the pincers of mudcrabs.

"Hermaeus Mora," Crixus said with solemnity in his voice. "Keeper of Knowledge."

"Hoarder of knowledge, you mean," Frea interjected. "Herma-Mora has been seeking out all knowledge known to the peoples of the world. My father told me that he came to the Skaal, but we have denied him the knowledge of our greatest secrets. Yet he continuously seeks that knowledge. And for what reason? Why, only to have the knowledge all for himself."

"Or _her_self," Crixus added. "While it's rare to actually meet old Hermaeus Mora in the flesh, the daedric princes are beyond male and female."

"This way," Eirik said. "There's a tunnel this way."

"It looks exactly like the ones we've been through before!" Mjoll groaned in frustration.

"No," Eirik stated. "We didn't come this way, I'm sure of it."

He passed on first, with the others following on behind him. At last, at the end of the tunnel, there was another wide, circular room with a statue in the center. Before the statue was a stone pedestal upon which sat a heavy book bound in leather. Both Eirik and Crixus came to a halt as the flicker of their torch-light fell upon the familiar sight of the covering. It was bound in ancient leather, marked with the emblem of the cuttlefish.

"I've seen this before," Crixus said. "It was on that book we found in the Bloodskal barrow."

"I often wondered what happened to it," Eirik stated.

"I kept it on my person," the Cyrodilian replied. "It seemed to bother Mjoll quite a bit, so I thought I should keep it secret."

"Do you know what it says?" Eirik asked.

"Never read it," Crixus replied.

"What say we read this one?"

"You first," Crixus laughed.

"No," Eirik shook. "We should read this together."

Together, they pulled open the heavy cover and opened the book to the first page. It was written in words which they knew and could read.

"_'The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation,'_" Eirik and Crixus read as one. "'_Will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of though. The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First..._'"

As Eirik reached the farthest page to turn it, something reached out of the book and wrapped itself around his wrist. Something else jumped out of the crease in the center and Eirik found himself suddenly being wrapped in long arms like those of a netch. He turned to Crixus, but saw that he was trying to run away, but found that he couldn't escape either: one of the fiendish arms had wrapped itself around his leg and was pulling him inward. Crixus fought against it, yet Eirik could not see the outcome, for the darkness engulfed his world and he knew no more.

* * *

When his eyesight returned, Eirik saw that he was lying on his face on cold, slimy dark stone. He pushed himself onto his feet and saw, lying next to him, was the grim, dark-haired face of Crixus. He too was pushing himself onto his feet near at hand.

"Fuck!" Crixus shouted. "That was painful. It was like hands were reaching into my head right through my skin, it..."

"Shh!"

"Don't tell me to..."

But Crixus halted when they looked forward. Gathered before them were the creatures they had encountered in the Bloodskal barrow, just as hideous and slimy as they had appeared in the dark as in the green light of this world of empty otherness. Far about were many tall monoliths of dark stone or piles of small things with many leaves, stacked up like giant towers. One giant tower of stone stood directly in front of them. It was then that they both saw that there was something walking towards them.

The figure was tall, almost a head taller than Eirik, which was quite a feat as Eirik was a tall Nord himself. The thing was clad in blue robes, hands and feet armored. His face was hidden in a steel mask fashioned in the likeness of a cuttlefish which made him look like the abominable things floating around him. He didn't seem surprised by them, his attention was drawn to those two who were lying before him.

"So, you're the ones," the tall one said to them. His voice was masculine, strong and powerful, and his tone was Nordic. "You call yourselves Dragonborn. I can feel it, and yet...ha! All you've done with that power was kill a few paltry dragons? You two have no idea of the power a Dragonborn can wield!" The tall one stood before them, then shouted in the voice of the dragons. "_Mul...Qah Diiv!_"

Before them, the tall Nord figure was covered in what looked like armor of fire, from head to toe. It radiated with power, greater than any Eirik had felt from the soul of a simple dragon. Then they saw something else appear out of the green mist. It was a dragon, a kind of dragon he had never seen. Its scales were smoother than those of any dragons he had ever encountered and its neck was hornless and smooth like a serpent.

"I am Miraak," he said. "First of the Dragonborn, high priest of the servants of the dragons. This realm is beyond you two. You have no power here, and it is only a matter before all of Solstheim is also mine. I already control the minds of its people. Soon they will finish building my temple and I will return home." He took a step back and turned to the abominations at his right and left.

"Send these interlopers back where they came from," he said. "They will await my arrival with the rest of Tamriel."

Miraak then mounted the blue, snake-necked dragon and took off into the void. But he was soon lost, as the abominable things had circled them again and they were speaking something. Their tongue was strange and evil and uncouth in their ears and buffeted them like foul winds. They were thrown about over and over, pushed against each other, slammed against the stones, and then all was blackness and silence.

* * *

**(AN: One reason for the _Dragonborn_ story to end first, before the [spoilers] happens is that it helps our hero, Eirik, recognize the full picture of how his ancestors used to be, which will help forge his decision later on, as well as the discovery of what happened in Markarth. I don't know, maybe I'm just thinking too hard, trying to plan ahead and such.)**

**(As far as other sexual actions, I've considered having something occur between Eirik and some other character, but then part of me doesn't want to, specifically for the Mjoll/Eirik pairing, but then if you've seen any of _Iron Dullahan_'s artwork, maybe you would have an idea of what I'm getting at and see that maybe something else happening _could_ be in the cards. Seriously, I had that idea too, but now I've got to think of a good reason to put it in, one that would serve the story progression.)**

**(Sorry for the second cliffhanger. I'm only doing it to keep people interested in the story [and hopefully get more reviews].)**


	40. Saering's Watch

**(AN: We're so close to surpassing _Exodus: Birth of a Nation_ as my longest story to date, and I've even hit the fortieth chapter. Yay! I'm so happy to beat my own record. I don't know if I'd be even capable of repeating that in any other story, but I'd still want to try. Thank you, _ThalieXVII_, for inspiring me to shoot for the stars.)**

**(Unfortunately, I found out that Storn Crag-Strider, Frea's father, is _not_ the leader of the village. If I had said so earlier, please let it be known and I'll correct that mistake. Maybe I am being too hard on the hipster-Nords, but then again, it's okay to be hateful against an old white village who are smug in themselves, like one of the reviewers on _Star Destroyer_ [dot net], who reviewed _Star Trek: Insurrection_.)**

* * *

**Saering's Watch  
**

Eirik's eyes finally opened and he found himself lying on the floor of the circular room in which he had found the book. He was level with the floor and he could see his torch flickering idly on the floor. He pushed himself up and saw, nearby, that Crixus was rubbing his head as he rose from his slouching position.

"What happened?" Frea asked. "You read that book and then...and then you just because...well, you weren't wholly there. Like you were _there_ and not there at the same time...both of you."

"We're fine," Eirik said. "Come, let us be off."

"Excuse me," Mjoll spoke up. "While you two were under this spell, I found something over here."

The others walked over to where Mjoll stood and found a second tunnel leading away from the room. The path lead upwards and wound about, then led to a small door at the end of the corridor. They opened the doors and stepped back blinkingly from the light that was flooding in from the open door. After they stopped blinking and their eyes became adjusted to the light, they could see the white of snow and feel the cool wind blowing upon their faces. A welcomed sight after the dark and stuffy corridors of the Temple of Miraak. One by one they passed out into the light.

"Finally!" Eirik sighed. "That temple was starting to get to me."

"I thought that would have happened," Mjoll said, punching his shoulder playfully. "When those arms reached out of that book and put you under their spell."

"Don't remind me," Eirik replied.

"Look!" Frea exclaimed, pointing out from where they stood on the snowy slope of the hill. From there they saw a ring of standing stones similar to that which they had seen in Raven Rock. "That green light down there, it's from the Wind Stone. That is one of the places where my people work against their will. We must free them soon."

"But how?" Crixus asked.

"I know not," Frea sighed. "I thought maybe you could help."

Both Crixus and Eirik shared uneasy glances with each other, then turned back to Frea. She was on her way down the hill and onto a snowy ledge with a rope bridge spanning a wide gap. The others walked across after her, though they walked carefully over the bridge for fear of it breaking beneath them.

"Come," Frea said, turning back to the others. "My village is just ahead. My father Stron and the other elders raised a barrier to protect those left. I think you should speak to him. He's the wisest man in the village. If anyone can help you, it would be him."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "Some backwater shaman is going to help us save these poor sods from Miraak's spell?"

"Do not insult my people!" Frea insisted, stepping in front of Crixus. "My father is the wisest man in the village, deep learned in the ways of the shaman of the Skaal."

"Yeah? What does he know how to do, die in snowstorms?" Crixus replied. "Well, he sure doesn't teach you how to survive them properly."

Frea drew out her ax and things would have gone ill if Eirik had not done something he thought he would never do. He stepped between the two of them.

"Put it down," he insisted.

"Get out of my way," Crixus ordered. "I'll teach this b*tch some manners."

"You couldn't take me in a fair fight," Frea retorted. "Not in a hundred years."

"Care to make a wager on that?"

"Your coin means nothing to me!"

"My cock will mean something to you!"

"Alright, that's enough!" Mjoll interjected. "Both of you! We've been getting along so well this far, can't we just hold from tearing each other to pieces until we've at least reached Frea's village?"

"He insulted my people!" Frea retorted. "Our way of life!"

"He does that all the time," Eirik said.

"And you do nothing about it?"

"Tch, like they could do anything about it," Crixus laughed. "I'll say whatever I want."

"Quiet!" Mjoll hissed. "Listen, if you two keep shouting, it's likely to cause an avalanche. Now come, it's getting on towards evening." She turned to Frea. "Can you show us the way to this village?"

"This way," Frea said, though her eyes were trained venomously upon Crixus. Mjoll walked at Frea's side and began apologizing for his behavior while he walked behind with Eirik. The tall Nord shook his head as he followed on after them, starting to lose patience with Crixus.

An hour or so had passed as they crossed the side of the mountain and arrived at a village which looked undeniably Nordic. All the buildings were made of wood and the roofs thatched with straw. There were few people about, and some of those about were gathered about in a circle in the midst of town, sitting cross-legged before what looked like a gust of wind. They were dressed as they had seen the other Nords in this area dressed: in thick woolen coats which made them look twice as big. Frea approached one of them, an old man with a long grey beard who looked as though he would have been right at home among the Greybeards of High Hrothgar.

"Father!" Frea said to the old man. "I have returned, there is yet hope."

The old man stepped away from the gust of wind, which seemed to sputter for a moment, then turned to his daughter and shared a few words with her in private. After what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, Frea turned to Eirik.

"Please, tell Storn what has happened." she said.

"Frea tells me that you have seen things, yes?" the old man spoke. He, like Frea, had a thick Nordic accent. "Time is short, tell me what you know."

"I have seen someone in the ruins on the mountain," Eirik said, gesturing back to where they had come. "He called himself Miraak."

"How is that possible?"

"There was...a book," Eirik continued, realizing just how improbable it sounded. "It was in Miraak's temple. I went...somewhere. Miraak was there."

"Ah, yes," the old man said. "The stories tell of that place. Terrible battles fought there, in ancient times. The dragons burned it to the ground in their rage at Miraak's betrayal. They said..."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," the old man said, running his hand through his shoulder-length gray hair. "The stories speak of something worse than the dragons buried within the temple. It's...it's difficult to imagine. But if it's true..."

"Yes?" Crixus asked.

"If it's true," old Storn continued. "It means what I have feared has come to pass. Miraak was never truly gone and has now returned." He paused for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"You say you went somewhere," he said at last, turning to Eirik. "And you saw Miraak."

"Yes, that's true."

"Are you like him, then?" Storn asked. "Are you...Dragonborn?"

Eirik looked over at Crixus, whose arms were crossed and rolled his eyes when the Nord looked at him. He turned back to the old man and nodded. "Yes. I am."

"Perhaps you are connected with him," Storn continued. "The old stories referred to Miraak as Dragonborn. Still, I'm not sure what this could entail. It could mean our greatest hope...or our greatest fear." He shook his head. "But our time here is running out. We cannot protect ourselves from this dwimmer-curse any longer. There is something you can do for our people, if you are willing."

"What is that?" Eirik asked.

"There is a place just north of here," Storn said. "It is called Saering's Watch. Legends say that Miraak learned a terrible power in that place, a power which gave him the ability to control man, beast and dragons with his very voice. I think this dwimmer-curse is the result of this power. But if you had that power and could use it on the Wind Stone, then perhaps you could break the hold on our people there and free them from Miraak's control."

"But they cannot leave now," Frea said. "For soon night will be upon us. We should at least give them shelter until the morning."

Storn nodded, and told Frea to find them housing while he returned to keep the 'barrier', as he called the whirlwind between him and the other elders. Frea led them to one of the tall houses, where one of those heavily clad in thick clothes was seated against the wall by himself. Eirik said nothing while they settled down, but they soon realized that even they would soon need clothes as thick as the Skaal ere the night was over.

* * *

"It's so damn cold," Eirik sighed as he huddled over a lone candle. Night had fallen and the cold winds were howling outside. Inside the house, the wind was coming through every crack and crevice of the boards until it seemed that even this house was barely enough to keep out the wind.

"The Skaal have provided us with blankets," Mjoll said. "They're rather thick, we should be able to endure the night." Eirik did not reply. "We'll survive, don't worry. I've been this far north before. It's very cold in the far north, especially around Winterhold and near Haafingar." She sighed. "I've always wanted to see Solitude again."

"I don't want to talk now," Eirik shuddered. "It's freezing inside as well as outside."

"Come here," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"What did you say?" Eirik asked, turning around.

"You heard me, I said come here," Mjoll said. Eirik scooted over from the candle to the corner of wall where Mjoll had set up a blanket.

"What is this?" Eirik asked again.

"We will do as you and Lydia have done," Mjoll said. "Come here now."

Eirik's mind shot immediately to one thing and he spoke his mind on it. "But you said...you said that you would never let a man..."

"I did and I hold to that still," she said. "We're just going to sleep under the same blankets for warmth."

With sudden unease and a feeling of dryness in his throat, Eirik crawled over to Mjoll and sat down next to her as he began removing his armor. It wouldn't do anything but grow cold and would make sleeping even worse. Once he was down to his clothes, he reclined next to Mjoll as she wrapped the blanket over both of them.

"Turn around," she said.

"What?"

"Turn around, face away," she ordered again.

"Why?"

"I know how men are like," Mjoll continued. "Tonight, I will sleep behind you with your sword away from me and my hands in quick reach of your neck in case you try anything."

With a weary sigh, Eirik turned over, now facing the far end of the room, where the candle was slowly dying. Then he felt arms, stronger than steel yet as soft as butter, wrap themselves around his upper shoulders. He could feel the warmth of Mjoll's body pressed against his back and he suddenly felt at peace. No matter what would happen, he was safe now.

"Where did Crixus run off to?" Mjoll asked. "I saw him with us when we were talking to old Storn, but when Frea spoke about the coming of night, he departed."

"I know he left some of the loot from the temple back at the top," Eirik replied. "He probably went to get it back. Now, please, I wish to sleep."

"As you wish," Mjoll sighed. "But I can't sleep. You know? I...I've spent many years in solitary travel throughout Tamriel. I've enjoyed the adventures, don't get me wrong, but there was always something lacking. I thought I found it when I came to Riften with Aerin. He's a good man, kind and generous and he listens to my stories. But he's hardly a fighter and wouldn't last a day in my adventures. That's why..."

There was a moment of quiet that seemed to last forever. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, Mjoll breathed heavier as she spoke and Eirik's pants became uncomfortably tight.

"That's why I really appreciate you," Mjoll continued. "You made it possible for me to continue adventuring across Tamriel, to see my skills as a warrior come to fruition. You've given me something Aerin could not possibly give, and for that, I am forever grateful. But you're also generous in your own way, and I like that in you."

It was to the sound of Mjoll's voice, constantly talking, that Eirik finally fell asleep. He slept for a very short time before he was awoke by the same thing again: the sound of Mjoll's voice. Only now it wasn't talking, it was whispering in his ear.

"Wake up," it whispered softly.

Eirik stirred gently in his sleep, then his eyes slowly opened. He saw Mjoll's face just a foot or so away from his own face, a smile on her large lips. He saw that they were both mostly covered under the heavy blanket, yet he could feel something soft and moist about his loins. He gasped in surprise and a sudden burst of ecstasy as he realized what was happening.

"No, this isn't right," he whispered. "Your...your power. You will lose your power if you do this. Please, don't."

"All we have is this night," Mjoll gasped. "Now take me, Dragonborn. All of me!"

For a moment, Eirik could hardly believe what he was experiencing. Ever since his reunion with Mjoll after the incident with Lydia, he had secretly wished that this would happen. It felt so wrong, as it would be robbing from Mjoll something so precious to her. Yet it was not disallowed, for Dibella had made it happen once, maybe it would happen again. That moment by the netch pastures made him realize that, perhaps, she felt the same way. He rested back and savored the moment, enjoying the sensation of soft skin grinding against his member.

"Wake up," she whispered again.

"I am awake, Lioness," Eirik breathed.

"Wake up!"

A hand struck him across the face and Eirik saw that he was looking up at the ceiling. He looked down and felt with his hands. He was still covered in the blanket and clad in his clothes. He turned to his left and saw Mjoll sitting there, a suspicious look on her face.

"Did we just..." he began.

"You were asleep," Mjoll replied. "You kept calling out my name, saying that it wasn't right, whatever that means. Now get up, we owe these people our aid."

Eirik pushed himself up and reached for his armor. It had been a dream, all of it. But it felt so real, as though it had actually happened. Why were the gods tormenting him with this vision? He could not truly have her, why would they do this to him? It frustrated him, especially since everything he had experienced was true. What she had said in the netch pastures still held sway on his mind. She had asked him about the marriage customs in Skyrim. She was interested, that much was certain. But interested in what? Being his friend, being something more? But what more could they be, especially if she had vowed never to lie with a man?

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when they awoke. Far in the south they could see the ash-cloud from Solstheim, dissipating under a strong northern wind. Eirik and Mjoll stepped out of the wooden house of the Skaal to find Crixus standing there, waiting for them. His cloak and hood were now fur-lined to keep out the cold, but he wore no more than he had the previous evening. They bade farewell to Frea, who had come to see them off, and then set out northward. They came to a place just outside of the Skaal village that provided them a goodly glimpse of the north-eastern side of Solstheim. Though the sun was high and peaked over the ash-cloud in the far south, it was colder than any winter in Skyrim that Eirik had known.

The air was clear up here, clearer also than in Skyrim. No heavy snowstorms blew up blinding sheets of white to obscure their sight. They could see all the way around most of the north-eastern side of the island, against which the Skaal village was built. They could see mountains of ice forming off the sides of the mountain into a giant shelf of ice. Closer at hand, however, they could see the remains of an ancient Nord ruin, poking their grim heads above the ice and snow. This, they reckoned, was Saering's Watch. They went that way, eager to discover what secrets Miraak had uncovered there.

"It's probably just a dead end," Crixus argued. "Any secrets were plundered long ago. Now it's probably just full of ice and draugr."

"You worry overmuch, my friend," Mjoll said.

"Oh, so I'm your friend now?" Crixus asked with a chuckle. "Whatever happened to Imperial dog?"

"You're still that," Mjoll stated. "And I'm still disgusted over your involvement with the Thieves Guild. But you've proven yourself a worthy warrior, and I'm proud to call you friend."

"Whatever," Crixus replied, rolling his eyes. "Still, what's wrong with the Thieves Guild?"

"The people of Riften didn't ask to have their livelihoods taken away from them," Mjoll retorted. "They're good, honest, hard-working people, they don't deserve the life they have in Riften."

"Well, then maybe they should leave Riften," Crixus replied. "Because the Thieves Guild isn't going anywhere. If it weren't us picking your pockets, somebody else would be doing that, and trust me, they would be worse."

"Do you think that actually justifies your actions?" Mjoll retorted. "Stealing is stealing. How would you like it if I took something of yours?"

"Touch anything of mine and I'll smash your face in, b*tch!" Crixus retorted, as though she had openly threatened him.

"No one's ever told you 'no' before, have they?" Mjoll asked.

"I kill any who try," Crixus stated. "Nevertheless, you can't be running about Riften, trying to protect her. She's the Thieves Guild's b*tch. Leave her to us, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or you just might find something else in your mug the next time you sit down at the Bee and Barb," Crixus added with a wolfish grin on his face.

"Alright, that's enough," Eirik interjected. "Look, we have a job to do. I've been trying my best to swallow my pride and focus on the task at hand, but if you two want to have it out, well, then, you can do that in someone else's company."

Mjoll sighed in weary resignation. "I shouldn't have let him get to me, I know. It's just that Riften is my beast to destroy, my charge, and in the years I've been living there, all of my efforts have been in vain."

"That's because you're fighting a losing war," Crixus added. "Might as well try to hold back the tide with your bare hands."

"The same goes for you, Crixus," Eirik remarked, turning to the Imperial.

"Well fuck you too," Crixus said. "I can speak if I please and I've got the weapon to insure that, and it's quicker than your overlarge bit of compensation."

"These rows would be fewer if you kept your mouth shut," Eirik returned.

"Maybe they wouldn't happen if you _Nords_ kept your mouths shut," Crixus retorted.

"You demand that you be given freedom to speak your mind," Eirik interjected. "Yet refuse that to us?"

"Oh, by all the daedric princes of Oblivion!" Crixus exasperated. "Just when I thought you were starting to become civilized and respectable, you go and do that?"

"Will you at least hold your tongue until we return to the village?" Eirik asked.

"No," Crixus said plainly.

"Then it appears our time together has come to an end," Eirik stated with a frustrated sigh.

"Fat fucking chance," Crixus interjected. "I'm not going to let you two walk on to Saering's Watch and take whatever secrets might lie there."

"But you said there weren't any..."

"Oh shut up, b*tch," Crixus retorted, then drew out his dagger as Mjoll prepared to hit him again. Eirik threw himself between them, which earned him scathing glances from both of them.

"As I was saying," he continued. "If there's anything at Saering's Watch, _if_ there's anything at Saering's Watch, I won't let you two have that over me, not if those fables the old Nord man said were even slightly valid."

"What happened to the Skaal being ignorant savages who would stubbornly hold on to their traditions while they died in the wilds?" Eirik asked.

"You're as big a b*tch as this one, aren't you?" Crixus returned, then scowled when he saw that Eirik did not take the bait. "He's still a stubborn old man, but he was right about Miraak." Crixus sheathed his dagger. "Alright, I'll go with you as far as Saering's Watch, but after that, you two are on your own. Let's see how well you survive out here without my help."

* * *

What had looked like a simple walk from the high point to the ruin turned out to be harder than they had initially thought. There was no clear pathway through the ice to the ruins, so they had to climb up the northern side of the main peak. They were in the sunlight all morning, for the eastern sky was free of the ash-clouds that would bury the sun as she made her way across the sky that day into the southwest. This meant that, while the wind was harsh on their bodies and the snow cold about their feet, the sun warmed their backs as they walked.

But neither snow, wind nor sun could lift nor soothe the situation that had befallen them. Since their recent altercation, none of them spoke to each other. Eirik had a hunch about why they were not speaking, more so than just because of the argument. He had seen the looks they had given him when he had stepped between them during the fight and he was certain that one or both of them thought that he secretly supported the opposing side. Crixus he did not support, for the Empire he had had nothing but bad experiences, even before his return to Skyrim. Despite the doubts that had grown within him since joining the rebellion, he was certain that the cause of a free and independent ruling of Skyrim was necessary. On that alone he opposed Crixus, but only that: the thief was a skilled knife-fighter and had, during their time together, saved his life more than once. It would be pure folly to let go of such a powerful warrior.

On the other hand, there was Mjoll the Lioness, whose amber eyes, golden-red hair, soft skin and full lips seemed to always be dangled just outside of the reach of his lusts and passions. She also was a mighty warrior, with whom he had fought and slain a dragon and endured so much already. Her power made her almost invincible, like a stone shield that could be sent into battle at his side. She also was a powerful warrior and as worthy an asset in his travels as Crixus. Her value was even greater in that, while she talked endlessly about her adventures and all the people she had met and the different cultures she had encountered, she wasn't as insulting as Crixus.

If he had to choose sides, he would have chosen Mjoll for friendship's sake. However they were working together for the same goal: the discovery of how to face the threat of this Miraak. They had to work together, at least until they reached Skyrim and they remembered the war and the dragons and everything. True to what Mjoll had said, Crixus appeared in Eirik's mind as one who was not used to being denied his way. He had certainly done much to curb, as Crixus would call it, his 'stubborn Nord pride' and focus on the task at hand. Why, then, would the so-called civilized Cyrodilic refuse to do likewise? Eirik grew frustrated trying to think over Crixus, then wondered if, perhaps, he could challenge him to a drinking game the next time they were in a tavern. It probably wouldn't happen, as Crixus would deride it as another stupid Nordic custom, but he knew that Crixus drank and he was running out of options.

At last they came to the north-eastern end of the island, upon the lower flank of the shelf of ice they had seen from afar. It had taken quite a while to reach this place, as there had been no straightforward way thither. As they passed on up the high slopes of thick snow and ice, they suddenly felt strong winds billowing upon their faces from the open sea. There was nothing to break the wind this far north, and it came down upon them with a biting cold and a stinging fury. They, each of them, regretted that they had not taken a pair or three of the Skaal's clothing before they had left the village.

With slow and measured steps, they approached the ruins of Saering's Watch. At the top of the ice shelf, they found the ruins of what had been a great stone structure of some kind with high walls and a second story whose roof and walls had broken down, leaving it open and exposed to the cold and the snows. They practically ran to the stone walls for protection against the howling winds from the sea. Though it was hardly any better, it broke the wind and was better than nothing. Once they had rested from the awful climb, they began searching the snow and the walls for any clue to what Miraak might have found that was useful. They split up and examined the room in which they were in, or at least what was left of it. It's roof had caved in and its walls were in pieces, leaving only a skeleton of what had once been a room lying in the snow. Farther down and to the left, it opened upon a corridor that led right and eastward to the main hallway, whose wall had long since collapsed and was now letting in the chill winds as they cried down upon them from the sea. To the left it went to a double staircase that led to the top part of the hall, where they decided to go investigate.

But there was no time to continue the investigation. Their feet had not touched the first step when the shelf suddenly gave a mighty lurch. They feared the worst, that centuries of ice and snow had made the shelf unstable and now they were about to plunge to an icy death in the Sea of Ghosts below. Then there was the roar, and a beat of strong wind that billowed through every inch of the rooms from above, not from the sea. The sun was darkened as a great winged shape passed over it and roared once again. As if in response to this voice, the moaning growls of long dead Nord draugr began to rise up from out of the snow.

"I've got this one," Crixus said, who pulled his bow from off his back and fitted an arrow from the quiver into the string. "Give me cover!"

"Wait..." Eirik began.

But there was no waiting to be done, not after Crixus aimed his bow up at the sky and shot an arrow at the dragon. The sound of snow crunching, barely audible over the rush of wings and the roar of the beast, was starting to come closer. Eirik knew that the draugr had realized where they were located, if only by hearing. He drew out his sword and ran towards the draugr, eager to lunge into fight. Behind he could hear Mjoll giving a cry behind him.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

Three of the draugr were thrown against the ruined wall. But there were at least five, and three of them had been the mighty deathlords: only one of them had been hit by the unrelenting force of Eirik's shout. Mjoll ran towards one of the draugr that was standing still, swinging Grimsever in a wide, horizontal slash that was met with by the beast's sword. The other one, however, had halted, its glowing blue eyes glaring at Eirik.

"_Sovngarde Saraan!_" the deathlord said to Eirik.

Eirik feared what would happen next, and he ran forward, shoulder first, intent on bringing this bastard down before it knocked him off its feet. As he pushed it down, he could feel something like a whirlwind billowing over his shoulder. The draugr had shouted just as it had been knocked off its feet but the Thu'um had flown harmlessly up into the sky. Once it was on the ground, Eirik gripped the iron breastplate of the draugr and tore it off: the leather straps had long since rotted off and he tore it off as though it were loose tree-bark. He could see the draugr's rotting chest, the skin brittle and dry. He dove his hand into the draugr's chest and ripped one of the ribs out, tearing it ajar so that it looked like the loose-hanging wing of a bird. He reached for the other one, but the draugr was now growling and heaving, trying to shout a Thu'um in Eirik's face that would have broken him like the High King. But he had torn the lungs off the creature and it could not speak or shout anymore.

"Behind you!" Mjoll shouted.

There was no time to move and Eirik suddenly felt something heavy hit his back, thrown head-first into the dead draugr. Whatever it was, the sword on his back turned the blow, yet he was still rather bruised and jarred. He turned about, just in time as the third deathlord drove his ax into the fallen one, hacking its face in two. Eirik pushed himself up out of the snow and drew out his sword. He swung wide and sent the draugr staggering backwards. One of the other draugr leaped at Eirik, but he strode aside, sending the other draugr tumbling into the snow. He cast a glance back and saw Mjoll being pinned by two draugr at once. Eirik brought his sword down on the shoulder of the bald draugr and hacked off its arm. He swung it back and sent another blow down, hacking off its other arm, then brought down another blow into the draugr's head, splitting it in two.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

Eirik found himself thrown face first into the snow, then hit something hard and he saw stars. He couldn't move, he felt like he had broken something. He pushed himself up onto his feet, but he fell face forward back into the snow. He tried again, but this time he had just enough strength to pull his face out of the freezing cold snow. His sight was blurry, reminding him fearfully of the time in Helgen when the dragon Alduin had attacked. He could hear voices crying out, ghosts from the past...

_"Ralof, you damn traitor!" the Nord Imperial soldier shouted. "Out of my way!"_

_"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof replied. "You can't stop us this time!"_

_"Fine!" Hadvar roared. "I hope that dragon takes you_ all _to Sovngarde!"_

"Eirik!" he heard a third voice suddenly shout.

He blinked his eyes, and suddenly the ringing in his head disappeared and Hadvar and Ralof were no more. He could see Mjoll with one draugr under her arm, tearing it apart as though she were a wrestler. Near at hand, he could see the draugr deathlord hobbling towards him. He drew out his sword and swung it at the draugr's knee, shattering it.

"Eirik!" a voice spoke, but Eirik saw that it came not from Mjoll. He turned around and saw Crixus standing there, bow still in hand and, nearby, the dragon making its way around the wall. "Hit the wings!"

He looked back and saw the dragon coming around. What happened next was something Eirik knew that no normal person could have done. Crixus bent his bow in Eirik's direction and he feared that the Cyrodilian had turned on them. Then he saw Crixus release the arrow, which imbedded into the back of the draugr. Unfortunately, for the draugr, this arrow was one of the scaling arrows tied with a line of powerful rope. With a mighty yank, he pulled the draugr back and dragged him towards him. Once the draugr was groveling at his feet, Crixus drew out his enchanted dagger and began carving long gashes into the draugr's body. The cuts burst into lines of fire and the draugr burst like fresh kindling.

"Get down!" Eirik shouted.

Crixus and Eirik lunged aside as a jet of fire burst through the ruin. Even out of the inferno's wake, it felt as though Eirik was being roasted alive. When at last it had cooled down, Eirik turned around and charged at the dragon, sword in hand. The snow sloshed under Eirik's feet, he saw two of the draugr that Mjoll had been wrestling had been burned to a blackened crisp, yet he saw no sign of Mjoll. Over one of the draugr corpses he leaped and bought his sword down upon the snout of the dragon. It recoiled liked a serpent and he took advantage of that and ran towards one of its fore-legs, thrusting his sword into the leathery wings of the beast. It let out a mighty roar and swung its flappy, torn wing helplessly while the other, whole one was incapable of winging the dragon off the ground. Crixus leaped at the dragon and thrust his dagger into its neck.

The dragon roared and flailed about, then collapsed into the snow with a dying roar of pain. Eirik and Crixus took a step forward, when suddenly there appeared before them the same apparition they had seen in the other-world within the black book of the temple: Miraak. There was, however, something wrong with him. His appearance was like that of a waterfall: present and yet could be seen through like the falling water. He turned his back to the dragon, his faceless mask looking at them.

"Well done, Dragonborn," Miraak said. "You've made my job easier. I will be taking this one, though."

"Fuck you, Nord!" Crixus shouted, then threw a dagger at Miraak. It passed through him like a curtain of water.

Miraak laughed. "Sadly for you, I cannot be here in person. But I do have enough power for this..." He turned his back on them and held out his hands over the burning corpse of the dead dragon. Eirik's eyes opened wide as he saw the flames coursing over the dragon's body and into Miraak's gloved hands.

"Ah," he moaned. "I wonder if it hurts, having your soul ripped from your body this way." The fire finally died, leaving nothing but a broken and lifeless dragon skeleton lying in the snow. His apparition then turned to the others. "My return is coming soon, and when it happens..." He laughed. "Well, you've heard my servants before." Then, with the blowing of the north wind, his apparition disappeared like sand in the wind.

"Damn!" Crixus shouted. "That little prick! He stole the dragon's soul right out from under our noses!"

"Mjoll?" Eirik called out. "Mjoll!"

"Oh, come off it!" Crixus retorted. "This is much more important! He stole that dragon's soul and we couldn't do shit about it!"

"Hey! Over here!" a voice groaned.

Both Eirik and Crixus turned about, but Eirik gave a groan of horror. Standing up out of the snow was Mjoll, her face burned and blackened by the dragon's fire. Yet even before their eyes, they could see her face healing from its wounds. She slowly stepped forward, with great difficulty for her body was covered in such awful burns. Yet slowly her face was coming back, bit by bit, until it looked exactly as it had before she had been devoured by dragon's fire. She fell knees forward into the snow, and Eirik strode through the snow and helped her up.

"There's something back there," Mjoll said. "I remember seeing something like that back at Arcwind Point. There wasn't any time, but..."

Crixus didn't say a thing but ran up the stairs towards the top level. Eirik helped Mjoll back to her feet and dragged her with him to the top. Up there was a wall, blasted and weathered by the cold northern winds. The two of them ran to the wall and began looking over what was carved there, etched in stone. It seemed to have lasted very long: if the legends Storn Crag-Strider had said were true, it had lasted since the time when dragons ruled the world. Most of the writing was faded far beyond recognition, but there was one word that they could read.

"_Gol_..." Eirik and Crixus said as one.

"Is this it?" Mjoll asked. "This is what's going to save the Skaal?"

"We'll have to find out," Eirik said. "There's still the Earth Stone, between the village and the temple."

"I'm going with you," Crixus added.

"Why?" Eirik asked. "I thought you were leaving us."

"I am," Crixus added. "But I want to see what this word of power does. And, I want to see what happens when you disturb the work of that bastard's servants."

* * *

It was well into the afternoon when Eirik, Crixus and Mjoll arrived in the Skaal village, weary from the journey down the mountainside. But they were ready to do what needed to be done. They came first to Storn and his daughter Frea, where they told them what they had discovered. They spoke nothing at first, but then Storn whispered something to Frea, who took up her axes and told them to follow her. The walk to the Earth Stone, however, was not as long as they feared or, perhaps, not as long as they would have wished. Within a few minutes they were standing before the stone, hearing the droning of the poor, pitiful creatures slaving away and chanting their words of doom.

"_Gol!_" Eirik shouted.

The earth shook before his feet, and then they saw the masonry that the workers had made crumble off like ice on a hot day. It fell onto the snow and into the pool of shallow water about the base of the Earth Stone, and then all was silence. The wind blew through the trees, whistled against the stone and snow, the workers breathed a weary rasp of breath, but they spoke no more. There was nothing.

Then suddenly, it appeared. As tall as a giant, it was perhaps even more hideous than the things Eirik and Crixus had seen guarding Miraak in the temple. It had a face like a fish, feet like a dragon and long, clawed fingers.

"By Ysmir's balls!" Mjoll exclaimed. "What kind of unholy beast is that!"

"It's a giant, looks like," Crixus said with a smirk.

"You think this is funny?" Eirik asked. "Giants have slain greater heroes than us."

"A giant's just a big man," Crixus replied. "If you can stab a man in the heart, you can do the same with a giant."

"But that's no man!" Frea replied. "And it's no giant either."

"Watch this," Crixus said, drawing out a dagger and throwing it at the large creature. To their surprise, something came out of its fish mouth, like the tendril of a netch, and swatted the dagger away, where it fell harmlessly into the snow. He drew out his bow and arrow and took a step back.

"Now would be a good time to shout it!" Crixus shouted.

"I can't!" Eirik retorted. "I'll have to wait."

"What good are you, then?" he returned.

"I'll hold it off," Mjoll added, jumping into the fray against the giant thing, Grimsever in hand.

Unfortunately, Crixus' arrow was swatted away by one of the tendrils from the creature's fish mouth. Mjoll struck the beast on its lower leg, but the blade was turned by the rock-like hide the creature wore on its lower legs. She stepped back and swung again, but the beast had raised its arm and blocked the blow with its fore-arm.

"Any time now!" Crixus shouted from behind.

"Out of the way!" Eirik called out to Mjoll. She took a step back, then Eirik breathed in deeply, focused the power of his voice, and then shouted with all of his might: "_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The beast remained rooted in place: it didn't even shiver. Instead it raised its foot and struck the ground, which turned blacker than tar, as though a hole had been opened that fell into a place deeper than Aetherius. From that hole came forth many long tendrils. Eirik was suddenly being covered by tendrils, he could no longer move himself. He looked around, but found that Crixus was not at his back: he had run off, it seemed, in the very nick of time. He tried to fight the damnable things off, but there seemed to be no escape.

* * *

**(AN: Yay, I hit the mark at almost seven thousand words in this chapter! It's so good to finally beat my own record again. Yes, another cliff-hangar. Well, my approval rating as a writer and musician is at an all-time low: I am possibly more hated by the educated public than Stephanie Meyer, justin bieber and _Metallica_. That kind of puts a damper on your artistic desire, that no matter how hard you try, your stuff will always be shit to those who give enough of a shit to even look at it. So, yeah, if anyone still cares about this story, I've given you reason to [hopefully] not leave and keep reading. I honestly had something planned, but then it all just died.)**

**(Since you were so patient, I inserted a steamy dream sequence just to hold you over, _Cyrus_, until the _real_ action happens. Believe me, it will be epic! Lots of stuff happening in this chapter, hoped you followed along. Don't rage against Mjoll's power: I did that before at Arcwind. Now, as for the cool stuff of the north of Solstheim, I've been to both coasts of my country, and I definitely had the west coast in mind when I described the winds at Saering's Watch [another realistic element that is lost in the game world]. I hope that came across, especially to you, _Cyrus_, who dwells in the land of the fjords.)**


	41. Oracle of Azura

**(AN: It is a grim celebration I hold, that this is now my longest story to date and is still going [hopefully]. And no, don't even start, I'm not going to do _that_ again. Just watch/read and you'll see how this all pans out.)  
**

**(Oh, did I make a mistake and refer to the stone as the Earth Stone? I meant the Wind Stone, so please correct me if I'm wrong.)**

* * *

**Oracle of Azura**

It was with astonishment that Eirik saw a dark figure suddenly jump at the large thing. The weight threw it to the ground and Eirik found that he was free. Rising to his feet, he saw the dark figure had stabbed the giant thing in the stomach. Now up on his feet, he drew out his great-sword and ran the beast through the throat, then tore the blade out and ran it through again. Upon the third stab, Mjoll joined in, thrusting Grimsever into its water-soaked, scaly body. It felt as though they had to tear it apart with their bare hands before it finally stopped writhing and slithering and came to a sickening, sloshing halt in the damp snow. Eirik then turned to his rescuer and his mouth hung open.

"Attack where your enemy isn't looking," Crixus said. "He had his attention on you and Mjoll, so I thought about taking advantage of that."

"Hardly the work of an honorable warrior," Eirik replied.

"Oh, just shut the fuck up," Crixus sighed. "It's dead, isn't it?"

"Aye, that it is," Mjoll said. "Whatever it is."

The three of them found themselves surrounded by people - Dunmer and Nord alike - who were jubilant over their rescue. While they were throwing cheers at him, Eirik noticed that Crixus and Mjoll had stepped out of the sight of the people and were making their way north, back to the village. Eirik ran after them, with the crowds of the freed people dispersing back to wherever they came from, and soon caught up with them.

"You didn't wait for me," he called out.

"I don't need fame," Crixus replied grimly. "I slew the bastard, now I'm done."

"And I told you before," Mjoll began. "My reward is from satisfaction and trust."

"Here we go," Crixus sighed.

Strangely enough, though, Mjoll said very little on the way back to the village. She seemed to be more taken in with the beauty of the snow-clad land. Now that they were done with their errand, their pace was slower than it had been before and they could enjoy their surroundings more than they had opportunity previously. Eirik also enjoyed it for its similarity to his native homeland. There were evergreens here as in Skyrim, and the snow was just as clean and crisp, the North wind as strong and comforting as always and the stone good and hard. Crixus said nothing.

At last the tops of the village could be seen just over the hill on the side of the mountain. Up, up, up they went until they saw the familiar sight of the village and could smell boar meet being roasted over an open fire. They came to the fire-pit in the center of the square of town, where most of the villagers were gathered around the roaring fire. Frea noticed them coming first and whispered to her father that they were coming. Old Storn rose up and turned to greet them.

"Well met, outsiders," he greeted. Eirik and Mjoll bowed, but Crixus made no move. The old man looked southward, breathing in deeply, and then smiled. "The air is different. We are safe, which means you have succeeded."

"We stopped the curse around the Wind Stone," Eirik replied. "Your people are free."

"So it is," Storn repeated. "You have shown yourselves to be friends of the Skaal, and so the Skaal will be friends to you."

"What happens now?" Eirik asked.

"There are other such stones across Solstheim," Storn began. "What you did to the Wind Stone, while I doubt it will stop whatever Miraak is doing, may abate his progress."

"Not good enough," Crixus spoke up. "Miraak should die _now!_"

"I'm sorry, friend," Storn sighed. "But I cannot help with that: no one here can."

"Well, then, what in the name of Dagon's balls are we doing here?" Crixus shouted.

"Please, forgive my friend," Eirik interjected.

"Don't apologize for me," Crixus interrupted. "I said exactly what I meant." He turned around and started walking away, when Storn suddenly called out to him.

"Wait a moment, friend," he said, walking towards Crixus. "While you were away, Frea told me about what happened in the ruins of Miraak's temple. Let me see the book."

Crixus eyed the old man carefully as he slowly removed from the sack slung over his shoulder one of the two black books. Eirik could not guess from the cover as to which one it was, but old Storn's hands shook as the book was offered to him. He turned away from the crowd around the fire and, with Crixus and Frea, walked over to a small hut on the edge of the village. Eirik and Mjoll followed after them.

"I know very little about this book," Storn said at last. "Except that it bears the emblem of Herma-Mora, the Gardener of Men and the Hoarder of Knowledge."

"When they opened the book," Frea interjected. "They were...something happened to them. They were...invisible, no. See-through, I guess. Afterwards, then they said something about..."

"Miraak," Eirik and Crixus said almost with one voice. Crixus looked over his shoulder and noticed that Eirik and Mjoll had followed them to the side of the hut.

"You say when you opened this book," Storn clarified. "You were taken before Miraak?"

"Aye," Crixus nodded.

"Hmm, strange." Storn grumbled. "It is no book of the Dragon cults." He then paused for a moment, stroking his gray-white beard in quiet thought. At last he spoke. "I fear the secrets you seek are hidden within this book."

"Can you help us?" Mjoll asked.

"No, I'm afraid I cannot," Storn replied, shaking his head so violently that his gray beard quivered furiously. "This-This is dark magic, a foul, unnatural thing. I would have nothing to do with it, although..."

"Yes?" Eirik asked.

"There is a Dark Elven wizard," Storn said. "His name is Neloth. He came to us some time ago, asking questions about black books. I fear he knew a great deal about them already, perhaps too much. If you wish to find him, he can be found in the south. Be careful, both of you." He said, looking at Crixus and Eirik especially. "There is something else at work here. I can feel it, by leaf and stone."

"What about me?" Mjoll spoke up. "You give no warning to me."

Storn laughed. "There is little warning I can give to you, Lioness. I know not what perils lie on the path you have chosen for yourself. Although..." He paused, stroking his beard in thought once more. "I can give you this much, though. I would ask, however, that only one other hear the words I have for you." He looked at Eirik and gestured him forward. Crixus seemed to get the hint and walked away, taking Frea with him. When at last they were alone, Storn Crag-Strider spoke at last.

"A mountain is mightier than a single stone," old Storn said at last. "And the strength of two strands of cord are greater than one. If you would take my advice, Lioness, your path should be a solitary one no longer. Yes, therein lies your greatest peril...and your greatest joy as well. If you forsake that, you will rue it for all time. Think on these things."

Mjoll thanked the old man, then cast a glance at Eirik and smiled at him. Eirik smiled in return and for a moment, they seemed to be of one mind. Then she turned and walked towards the others and Eirik ran after them.

"So?" Crixus asked. "What happens now?"

"We go after the other standing stones," Eirik said.

* * *

Many days had passed since they returned to the Skaal village with the good news that the Wind Stone had been cleansed of its corruption. True to what they had said, Eirik and Crixus walked the length and breadth of Solstheim in search of the All-Maker stones, which they would then cure of the corruption of Miraak. While, ideally, they would have gone together, most of the time Eirik and Mjoll went without Crixus' support. He would go to Raven Rock or the ash-plains of southern Solstheim and leave the northern wastes to them.

It was now late at night on the seventh of Frostfall. The last of the All-Maker stones had finally been cleared. A feast was being held at the Skaal village in honor of Eirik, Crixus and Mjoll. It was not much, for the Skaal were poor, even by the standards of the Nords of Skyrim. Nevertheless, there was mirth enough for them and to spare. Meat and bread and hot beers were passed around liberally to all those about and all were merry. At last, old Storn rose up from his place and told the old tales of the Skaal and their ancestors the Atmorans. While all were cheering and chanting along, Eirik leaned over and spoke to Frea.

"Your father is quite renown," he said. "A credit to his village."

"Oh, my father is not the leader of the village," Frea returned. "She is our leader." She gestured to a weathered-looking middle-aged woman with dark hair and a grim face. "Fanari Strong-Voice. She's our leader, a wise and powerful woman. Like a wolf, she is, in the business of the tribe. Mind you don't cross her, though. She may look quiet, but she's as dangerous as our last chieftain."

"Who was that?"

"Skaf the Giant," Frea began, fondly. "He was the one who taught me the ways of battle." She sighed. "I miss him dearly."

"Who is that?" Mjoll spoke up, pointing to a figure sitting by himself at the edge of the party. "I think I've seen him before..." Then the heavy coated figure turned around and Mjoll stammered. "Or...or her."

"That is Morwen," Frea said. "She is a Nord, but was not born among the Skaal. She would be more open to you, though. Perhaps you should speak to her. She broods over something, though she has not spoken of it to anyone."

Eirik walked across the room and approached the woman. She was clad in the thick fur clothes of the Skaal, which made her sex almost impossible to tell if she was not looking directly at him. When he saw her face properly, he almost gasped, for he was reminded almost instantly of Lydia: dark hair, grim face, blue eyes, pale skin. Could she have been related to her?

"What darkens your countenance?" Eirik asked.

"Many things, it seems," Morwen replied. She turned her head to Eirik. "You're from Skyrim, aren't you? Falkreath, right?"

"How do you know?" asked Eirik.

"I lived in Falkreath once," Morwen began. "Then my mother and father died and I decided to see the world. Although, I think I remember you."

Eirik said nothing, but shifted about so that he, like Morwen, had his back to the wall. He looked instead outward, as though what she was bringing up were something he rather not discuss.

"You were the woodsman's son," Morwen said. "Thorald, wasn't it?"

"What brings you to Solstheim?" Eirik asked.

"As I said," Morwen continued. "I traveled in my younger days. I was a soldier in the Imperial army, a mercenary in the Fighters Guild." She sighed. "But then, after a time, I grew disillusioned with warfare. I was on my way back to Skyrim when they closed the borders. I decided to make my way to Falkreath by way of Morrowind, and it was then that I heard of the Skaal and their lifestyle. I decided that I would rather spend the rest of my days in peace here among the snowy mountains and cold winds that remind me of Skyrim."

"Is that why you open up to me so easily?" Eirik asked her.

"You could say that," Morwen replied with a wiry smirk. "It's nice to see someone from Skyrim again, someone who doesn't give you a blank stare when you mention Kyne or Talos."

"You worship Talos?" Eirik asked, removing his amulet from his chest and holding it up.

"No, I worship Kyne," Morwen said. "But I won't disparage you from worshiping who you choose." She laughed. "You'd be surprised how many in the Legion keep Talos amulets under their doublets. Not the Cyrodilians, though. They had no trouble giving up the worship of Talos, he was just the founder of their empire, after all." Eirik chuckled.

"What think you of the rebellion?" he asked.

"I think people should be allowed to choose whatever life they want," Morwen began. "Whether it's a warrior's life or the simple hardships of the Skaal. Although I do think fate has given the rebellion a rather distasteful name across Tamriel."

"What do you mean?"

"When the Red Mountain erupted," she continued. "The Dunmer of Morrowind were given Solstheim as their home by the High King of Skyrim, and now many of them have migrated to Skyrim proper. To say nothing of the Argonians, who made war with the Dunmer on the heels of the destruction of their homeland by the Red Mountain. It's easy for one to see these people as threats to the Nordic way of life, especially when the Empire won the Great War yet allows the Aldmeri Dominion to dictate the terms of their livelihood. But, outside of Skyrim, the rest of Tamriel looks upon the rebellion as ignorant upstarts, dumb, brutish rebels, little better than bandits."

"What about you?" Eirik asked. "You seem to sympathize with the rebellion and yet..."

"I've lived outside of Skyrim," she replied. "I've seen more of the world and the people that live in it. There are bigger problems than how many Dunmer and Argonians live in Skyrim. When Neloth came here, a few days ago, he spoke of the dragons. The Skaal don't believe the dragons are a threat, but that's because they weren't raised as we were. They don't believe in the stories of Sovngarde, Alduin and the end of the world. To them, it's just another one of nature's trials sent by the All-Maker for them to weather."

Eirik looked over and saw Mjoll waving him back to her side.

"I have to go," Eirik said.

"Wait, before you go," Morwen interjected. "If you happen to be returning to Skyrim any time soon, I want you to take this with you and place it on the grave of my parents in Falkreath." She gave to Eirik a silver necklace, set with a sapphire. "It belonged to my mother Bera. If you have trouble, just ask the priest of Arkay which grave belongs to Bera Bjornsdottir."

"I will do my best," he replied, taking the necklace from Morwen. With the necklace in hand, Eirik joined Mjoll. As soon as he had appeared, old Storn stepped down from the center of the hall in a sea of cheering.

"They certainly love him, don't they?" Eirik asked.

"That they do," Mjoll replied. "By the way, Storn told us we can stay in the village for as long as we choose. We can stay with Morwen, she lives by herself."

"Quite generous," Eirik commented.

"Well, what do you expect?" Mjoll replied. "You've done quite a bit by freeing the people with your antics."

"Yours too, I should add," Eirik added.

"It was all you," Mjoll smiled. "I didn't shout those stones to pieces, I didn't free those Skaal. True, I might have lent you a hand. But it was you who did the deeds. Old Storn declared us as Skaal-friends. We can come and go as we please, we're welcome here."

"Even Crixus?"

"Even Crixus," Mjoll repeated.

Eirik looked over to say something to the Imperial, but saw that he was not in his seat. "Where has he gone to now?"

"Said something about business in Raven Rock," Mjoll replied. "Had to leave immediately. Come, now, let's enjoy the feast."

* * *

In the early morning, when most were still asleep, Eirik opened his eyes. For the first time in a long count of months, since before Last Seed, he guessed, he had slept with no dreams troubling his sleep. When he opened his eyes, he saw Morwen was the only one awake, tending the fire-pit in the center of the room.

"Good morrow, Skaal-friend," Morwen greeted.

"And to you," Eirik returned. "What time is it?"

"The grey hours before dawn," Morwen replied. "The eighth of Frostfall, I'd say."

"How do you know the date?" Eirik asked. "The Skaal don't seem like the ones to follow the calendar of Tamriel."

"It's true, we have other names for the months and seasons," Morwen stated. "But I'm from Skyrim and old habits die hard, as they say."

Eirik then got up and made sure his things were gathered. He then roused Mjoll from her sleep and told her of his plans for the day. They would be returning to Raven Rock in search of Crixus. While Mjoll was readying herself, Morwen gave them both dried meat and some new foods Eirik had never seen before. They looked like potatoes, yet their flesh was ruddy and had a light sheen of gray about them.

"Ash yams," Morwen explained. "These grew in Vvardenfell before the time of the eruption. They are some of the only plants that can survive in the south-lands."

"Thank you," Eirik said, as he took the ashen potatoes. These he added to their supplies, divided evenly between himself and Mjoll, and then took up his gear. Mjoll had finished her preparations. They were finally ready to leave. Ere they left, however, Morwen spoke these final words of farewell.

"Go, Skaal-friend," she said. "Go with the blessing of the All-Maker and all the Divines. May they lead you to safe paths and to glory, as best befit both our people. You're a warrior, that I saw from the first time you slept in my house five days ago. You need no more blessings of strength than what you have on your own. If you return not, then I wish you a warrior's welcome in Sovngarde."

It felt reassuring to Eirik, hearing the benediction of his people on the lips of his own people and given to him. It reminded him painfully of home, which he had long since forsaken and now was separated from once again. He bade farewell to Morwen, then threw open the doors and led Mjoll outward into the snow. Out beyond, Eirik paused and looked southward, across the island of Solstheim, to the lands shrouded by the ash-cloud.

"Do we have everything?" he asked.

"Aye," Mjoll answered.

"Good," Eirik nodded. "Because once our business in Raven Rock is done, we're going back home to Skyrim."

* * *

The day dawned clean and crisp as the travelers set out from the Skaal village. The inane chants of those spellbound by Miraak had ceased, and once again the cool, northern wind blew upon the land. Ever and anon, the howls of wolves or the calls of the wild Rieklings, goblin-like creatures, echoed in the hills. For Mjoll and Eirik, they encountered nothing in the snowy wastes. Any creatures were keeping their distance from the two, heavily armed travelers. They had crossed this land quite a bit in the past few days and they knew how to make swiftly through the snow without fighting too many creatures.

But it was worse once they reached the ash-wastes. For them, they had only just forgotten how awful it had been. There was nothing around them but grayness: the trees were covered in ash, the sun was hidden beneath the ash-cloud, and the ground vanished beneath feet of ash, sometimes thick, compacted and earthen and sometimes loose and easily airborne. It got into their lungs and made their walk even more miserable. But that was not the only thing that they had to encounter in the ash-plains.

Upon the slopes of the ash-fields, they were within sight of the Bulwark. Less than an hour or so and they would be on the streets of Raven Rock, where the ankle-deep ash was nothing compared to this toilsome trek. Upon seeing the wall and the tops of the town just beyond, they ran as best they could through the deep ash-drifts, eager to be out of the gray wasteland. But suddenly, there was a flash of fire and Eirik fell face-first into the gray ash.

"Get up!" Mjoll shouted. "Something's coming! It...it's rising up out of the ash!"

He pushed himself up, coughing and sputtering gray-white ash out of his mouth and pushed himself back up. It was then that he saw them, rising up out of the ash just as Mjoll had told her. They were man-sized and man-shaped, yet they were not men, or Dunmer, or any race of Tamriel of which Eirik was familiar. They were made of ash, yet their eyes burned with living fire like the atronachs of fire. Some of them bore two-handed weapons like axes or blades. Eirik counted three of them to only the two of them.

With a shout, Eirik swung his sword through the nearest of the creatures, and it passed through it as swiftly as though water. It barely did anything but stir the ash from the shape and send more flying, which only served to make this already blindingly painful encounter more blinding. The ash-thing swung its ax at him, and he barely had time to bring up his great-sword and parry the blow. It swung again, and he parried the blow. Then suddenly a flash of searing, burning pain erupted in Eirik's chest and he collapsed into the ash.

"You'll pay for that, by Ysmir!" Mjoll shouted.

Eirik pushed himself up out of the ash, and saw Mjoll standing over one of the ash-things. It wasn't moving as she struck down upon it with the malachite blade of Grimsever. When she struck it, it shattered like ice and was reduced to shivered fragments which could no longer fight nor move.

"They're weak to frost," Mjoll said. "Come, there are still two more of them."

Pushing himself up out of the ash and soot, Eirik held his blade up and blocked the blow of one of the incoming beasts as Mjoll delivered a crippling blow with Grimsever. She raised his sword, but then staggered forward as it blocked a blow from the rear by the second ash-thing. Without thinking, Eirik slammed his fist into the chest of the frozen ash-creature. It hurt his hand like striking solid wood, but he could feel the thing crack beneath his massive force. It couldn't even defend itself anymore, frozen as it was. With the pommel of his great-sword, he bashed its face in, sending frozen ash chunks falling to the ground. Then he brought up his sword and sent the frozen thing shattering to the ground in many pieces. Behind him, he saw Mjoll had buried her sword in the chest of the ash-thing and was trying to pull it back out. The frozen ash cracked and shivered as she yanked Grimsever about, trying to free it, then it suddenly came free with so much force that she staggered backwards.

"You did rather well for yourself," Mjoll complemented Eirik. "Maybe one day you can fight for yourself without my help."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Eirik returned, matching her smile with one of his own. They then cleaned the ash off their swords as best they could, then turned their faces back towards the Bulwark.

* * *

It was long after the hour of noon when the two of them finally arrived in Raven Rock. The ash-fall was light and so there were many people on the streets, milling about at their own business. There were many more people here than when he first arrived, thanks in no small part to the cleansing of the All-Maker stones, and Raven Rock didn't seem as sleepy and deserted as it had first appeared. Unfortunately, it meant that finding Crixus would be more difficult than he thought, with more people about town.

"Let's split up," Eirik said. "You go to the docks and buy us passage back to Windhelm." He reached onto his belt and handed Mjoll his purse.

"You trust me with _all_ of this?" Mjoll asked. "Are you sure?"

"Aye," Eirik replied. "We've known each other for months now, might as well show you some trust."

Mjoll's large, seductive lips curled into a soft, gentle smile. Eirik then remembered what she had said when they first met, how she had spoken of how gratitude and trust were what she sought. Now she had been shown a great level of trust. For one moment, Eirik wished that Mjoll would kiss him, as she had done so many months ago in Ivarsted.

Suddenly he saw her amber eyes look over his shoulder, then she took the bag and walked off towards the Raven Rock port. Within moments, something hard and heavy hit Eirik on the back of the head and he fell forward into the ashen streets. Once he stopped seeing stars, he turned about and saw a group of gray-skinned Dunmer, their sharp, angular, red-eyed faces even uglier as they scowled at him in anger.

"How many Dunmer have you killed, scum?"

"Go back to Skyrim, Nord!" one shouted at him.

"We don't need you!"

"Watch your back, Nord! You'll pay! By all the daedra, you'll pay!"

While the insults were flying, Eirik saw that what they had thrown his way had been a book. Curious, he picked it up out of the ash and then turned and walked off, trying to avoid the crowd. Some of them called him a coward and milk-drinker, while the more violent of them threw stones at him and followed after him, crying out for the Nord's head to be placed on a spike on the top of the Bulwark before the day was over. He drew out his sword, but then saw that some in the crowd were the chitin-armored guards of Raven Rock. It didn't seem that he could escape them, for more were gathering towards him with each step he took through the town. Then an idea came to his mind.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted, looking up to the sky.

The force like the beating of dragon's wings sent them all staggering back. Some of them turned and left, while others simply glowered at him angrily, giving him rude gestures, then walked away.

"You think you scare us with your Stormcloak tricks?" scowled one of the mob. "We are the Dunmer! We survived the fury of Dagoth-Ur! You'll find that we won't break as your puny little High King did the next time you feel like lording over us, tyrant!"

As the crowd started breaking up, Eirik sighed and then made his way to the side of one of the subterranean houses in the town, where he saw the one he was looking for speaking with a Dunmer who had not been part of the mob. But they had apparently concluded their speaking, for they shook hands in the Cyrodilic fashion: gripping the arm as far up as the elbow. Oddly enough, that handshake had originated by Tiber Septim, whom the Nords worshiped as Talos, who instituted the custom among the Empire after he lost his Thu'um to a failed assassination attempt. Of course, knowing Crixus, he would have a different story for how the 'assassination attempt' went, but that was not on Eirik's mind.

Their business concluded, Eirik made his way from the house and began walking the streets more or less alone. Eirik followed at a respectable distance of fifteen paces, keeping an eye on him. As they passed the smithy, Eirik ducked behind the large smelter as Crixus cast his eyes backwards towards him. A moment later, Eirik looked out from behind the smelter and saw Crixus pass down a side street. Curiosity got the best of Eirik and he left his hiding place and walked after him. He looked down the main street, then up the path that led to the mine, then back the way he had come, to make sure that Crixus hadn't doubled back in the knowledge that he was being followed. Turning to the left, he saw him kneeling in the street over something. He noticed that he swayed about as though one enchanted and his eyes never blinked. For a moment he wanted to walk over to him and rouse him, but then he saw what Crixus was kneeling over: a black book, like the one they had found in the Temple of Miraak. The memory of tendrils reaching greedily into his skull kept him from going any further.

"You!" a voice cried out in a frenzied tone of excitement.

Eirik groaned, fearing that one of the mob had found him again and he would end up in another uncomfortable position. He turned around, one hand on his sword and was surprised at what he saw. Instead of a mob, he saw one elderly Dunmer woman, her blue-gray skin faded with age, hobbling toward him. He took her in his arms for, as he could see from her eyes, black rather than red, she was blind.

"Yes, yes, you're the one!" the old woman said, reaching up and throwing Eirik's helmet off his head so her gnarled old fingers could feel his face. "Yes, she said you were not one of us. They didn't believe me, they didn't think the Mistress of Twilight would bring our salvation from outside of our people!"

"I'm terribly sorry," a younger voice cried out. Eirik turned and saw a younger Dunmer girl run up and take the old woman by the hand. He guessed that the younger one was a relative who was trying to save him from her elder's ranting. "Please, forgive my grandmother. She's old and confused and blind..."

"You know what I speak!" the old Dunmer said to Eirik. "Yes, I can feel it in your face. When I mentioned her name, your countenance fell. Yes, she has appeared to you before, hasn't she?"

"What are you talking about?" Eirik asked suspiciously.

"Azura," the Dunmer replied. "She spoke to me, told me to find you. You haven't done anything, you endanger us all!"

"Please, forgive her, outsider," the younger one said. "I guarantee, we're not like those people in the mob..."

"The Mistress of Dawn," the old one continued. "You must be an important one, never before have two daedric princes ever joined in their purpose. You seem to have friends in dark places, outsider."

"What?"

"The Night Eternal!" the old one cried. "It's coming, and you've done nothing to avert it! Azura gave you a task and you have been ignoring her! Please, Solstheim is not the place for you. Return to your homeland, go back to Skyrim and seek the Dawnguard before it is too late!"

Eirik paused, looking over the old Dunmer suspiciously. Were her words true? Had one of the daedra spoken to her and named him in particular? He had known - literally, in fact - that one of the aedra had appeared to Lydia in a direct oracle, but why, then, would the daedra? Were they really not evil as Crixus had stated? The one he had met, the one Crixus named as Azura, had saved his life. But what was the Night Eternal?

"What are you saying?" Eirik asked again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the old woman said, her voice now feeble and worn. "Did you say something?"

Eirik did not know how to respond. He tried to say something, but the woman's blank, sightless expression told him everything: she had no clue as to what had just happened. After assuring the younger Dunmer that all was forgiven, he picked up his helmet and turned back around the way he had come and set out for the docks. He would board the ship to Skyrim, as he had planned to do, but now he would do something else: three times now he had been told of the Dawnguard and the Night Eternal. He had to know what it meant. Little did he know that his path to the docks had been watched and was now being followed.

* * *

**(AN: Well, that went well. I specifically thought I needed to bring the ash-spawn into the story, since we've been about Solstheim quite a bit and yet haven't seen any of them, even though they're there pretty much ALWAYS [like with Morthal and the vampires. See? _Cyrus_, I do read your reviews and try to keep them in mind.])**

**(One would think that the followers would have some decent back-story or character, a la Mjoll and Lydia, but a lot of them aren't. So I thought I'd change that, give some of our characters a little more depth [hint hint on something to happen later on]. Also, there are some details about Eirik's past before Helgen that he doesn't want getting out but will, slowly but surely. As for Morwen, well, I picture Morwen of the _Silmarillion_ to look something like Lena Headey [of _300_ and _Game of Thrones_], and do likewise with Morwen of Solstheim.)  
**

**(Oh, speaking of Tolkien, you know that potatoes, tomatoes and such are New World plants, yet somehow they exist in Tamriel and Middle Earth [a very ancient version of Europe]. My guess is that the Numenoreans brought them over, along with pipeweed and _athelas_. As for Tamriel, maybe Valenwood or Black Marsh?)  
**


	42. The Fall of Riften

**(AN: Eureka! I suddenly have an idea for a visual reference for Mjoll: now granted, she is a bit thinner than I had originally intended, but I think Jeri Ryan [7 of 9 for those _Star Trek_ fans out there] would be a decent FC for Mjoll. She has the look, the big lips, is roughly middle-age, and on top of that, she's German, which is Northern European, close enough to Scandinavia to keep her in the "hunt", so to speak.)  
**

**(New sub-plot ho! Well, I had an interesting idea, based on my experience with the game. Before my brother deleted my progress, I was on the Companions quest-line and when...well, _that_ happened, Lydia left my service. So when I started back again from the bottom [after Lydia vanished when Mjoll and I moved to Breezehome and never returned...no body, no note, she just vanished from off the face of Nirn!], I chose not to take Mjoll with me when I did..._that_. Thankfully, we had long since been married then and I just had her stay at home [since I had to leave her behind for the _Dawnguard_ quests: I've not been idle in between chapters, I've learned up on some lore...hopefully], but that did other things that will soon happen. Anywho, that opened up opportunity for something that will happen in which the _Dawnguard_ quests can take place, just wait and see. It will be good.)**

* * *

**The Fall of Riften  
**

It had been some time since Eirik and Mjoll left Solstheim, and they had seen very little of the sun. On the day they set out to sea, a storm from the Sea of Ghosts had struck their ship, threatening to drown them all. For most of the voyage, Eirik and Mjoll had huddled together under a blanket to keep warm. At last, however, they arrived at the dock assemblage in Windhelm and smelt the cool, clean Skyrim air once again. It happened upon a bleak, overcast morning, two days out of Raven Rock. Mjoll was the first to stir, moaning softly as she felt the cool wind upon her face. She rose up from where she lay and looked out from the side of the drekkar. With a laugh, she roused Eirik.

"We're home," she said. "Ah! It's good to be back in Skyrim. It's like coming home after a long holiday, don't you think?"

Eirik got up and smiled, happy that he was returning to Skyrim in relative peace, unlike his first return. He bade farewell to Captain Gjalund and then with Mjoll disembarked onto familiar Skyrim shores. His welcome, unfortunately, was hardly warm. Aside from the fact that the dock assemblage was open to the winds from the sea, there was a group of Argonians glaring at him from beneath their heavy winter clothing. As a reptilian race, they were not accustom to the harsh weather of Skyrim and so usually dressed very warmly. But even a heavy hood could not keep out the angry glare of their yellow snake-like eyes or the many small, pointed teeth in their mouths as one of them hissed at Eirik.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," the Argonian cooed. "Ours is to smile at your passing, '_friend_.'"

Eirik did not trust the way the Argonian male spoke. Then again, many of the Nords did not trust Argonians. Apart from being highly secretive, which only promoted greater distrust, and there being many thieves counted among the Argonians, they seemed 'above' the Nords as they caught none of their diseases. As if that were not enough, Argonians had overthrown the Dunmer in southern Morrowind in the years after the eruption of the Red Mountain. Some of the Nords in Skyrim feared that the Argonians might invade Skyrim, beleaguered as it was with the civil war, as they had done to the Dunmer of Morrowind.

"Come on, now," Mjoll said to Eirik, placing an assuring hand on his shoulder. "It's just words."

They walked off, ignoring the hisses and shouts the rowdy Argonians were making as they left the assemblage.

"Pay no heed to them, kinsman," a voice said nearby. Eirik turned about and saw a scrawny looking Nord with a reddish mustache styled with the chin shaven clean. "They're just Argonians."

"What's wrong with Argonians?" Mjoll asked.

"Well, for one thing," he said. "They're not suited to live in Skyrim. Cold-blooded lizard-people can't work as long in the cold weather as Nords, which makes them useless for work. But they're not as bad as the Dark Elves, damn grey-skins!"

"Shut up, Rolff!" another voice ordered. Eirik saw an old, bald Nord warrior with a large, gray beard approach the scrawny Nord with a look of supreme disapproval.

"Oh, go back to sucking Thalmor cock, Brunwulf!" Rolff retorted. "You don't hold with Argonians either."

"Yes, but I won't have you saying aught against the Dunmer," Brunwulf replied. "They lost their home and the High King never did them a greater service than to open the doors of Skyrim to their refugees."

"Peh!" Rolff stated. "They can act like innocent little beggars all they want, but they're plotting something in the Gray Quarter. By Shor's bones, haven't you read that declaration of war of theirs? It's in letters, the _Dunmer of Skyrim_!"

"That's mighty tall talk, Rolff," Brunwulf laughed. "Considering you can't read."

"I've heard what it says!" Rolff said. "So go take your Empire-pandering to the Dark Elves!"

As these two began arguing, Eirik and Mjoll exchanged glances between each other, then quietly departed. When they were both finally well away from earshot of those two, they both sighed in relief.

"I don't know about you," Mjoll spoke up. "But I agree with Brunwulf. I mean, I've been to Morrowind quite a few times. Did I tell you about the time my father and I went on hunting expeditions there when I was young?"

"Several times, I think," Eirik said. "At least twice here and another time in Solstheim. I remember Frea contradicting your story a few times."

"I didn't mean to disagree with her," Mjoll said. "But we _did_ hunt cliff-racers, whether she said so or not. I never heard of any story of someone killing all of them, there certainly were some when my father took me there. Nevertheless, as I was getting at, the Dunmer, while not exactly trusting of Nords, were kind enough to my father and I." She then sighed.

"What?" Eirik asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," she dismissed. "I was just thinking about my father. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps as a hunter, but, as you can see, I'm not exactly built for hunting. I had quite the skill with a blade and so I set my aspirations a bit higher. He was disappointed, but he never really complained. I miss him." After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, Mjoll spoke up again. "I see we're not going into the city?"

"No," Eirik shook his head. "I don't think Ulfric will be happy with me, not after I shirked my duties in the army."

"Where will we go, then?" she asked. "Whiterun? It's such a beautiful city, I do enjoy our visits there."

"Riften," he replied. "It's your home, I'm sure Aerin is missing you, as you are missing Riften."

"Aye, that is true," she replied. "But I see that you're concerned."

"I remember what Crixus said ere we left Skyrim," Eirik stated. "He said things were going to happen in Riften. I want to know what things he mentioned."

"As would I," Mjoll said. "But how should we arrive there swiftly? We couldn't bring horses to Solstheim."

"But we can hire a carriage," Eirik commented.

* * *

From the docks, it was a very short walk around the Argonian assemblage, then to the Snow Quarter, the main quarter of Windhelm, then out the gates and across the stone bridge to the Windhelm stables. They spoke to the carriage driver, a Nord named Alfarinn, who told them that he could take them to any of the hold capitals. When Eirik mentioned Riften, Alfarinn seemed wary, but Eirik offered to pay extra and the driver agreed to take them both to the Rift.

By midday, the travelers were well on their way out of the Eastmarch hold and making their way south, along a road that snaked across the foothills of the mountain-range that separated Skyrim from Morrowind. Since their departure from Windhelm, Mjoll talked his ear off about the hunting experiences she had had with her father up in those mountains. From what she had said, she had grown up in those mountains as much as she had with her mother and father and on her travels across Tamriel. Of course, with her talk ever on Morrowind, Eirik pondered once again the words the Nord had said on the docks and the mob that had surrounded him in Raven Rock. Out of curiosity, he reached for the book he had kept from Raven Rock, the one that had been thrown at him. The first page had the title, _Dunmer of Skyrim_, and the author's name: Athal Sarys. The first two paragraphs were not very interesting, the same slurs he had heard thrown at him and the Nord race by Crixus.

"Shor's bones!" Eirik exclaimed.

"What?" Mjoll asked, turning from the mountains to Eirik.

"Here," he said, handing the book to Mjoll. "Read this."

"_'...let all who read it know that Nords are not the only race to reside in this cold and inhospitable realm.'" Mjoll read from the point indicated. "'For we dark elves have come, and little by little, shall claim Skyrim as our own.'_ What madness is this?"

"It was a book," Eirik said. "Thrown at me by a mob of Dunmer in Solstheim."

"I heard a commotion when I was securing our passage," Mjoll said. "I thought it had been another attack of ash-spawn. You know, the gods were indeed with us on Solstheim, we only had one encounter with them in all of ten days we were there."

"This!" Eirik urged, holding up the book. "It's infuriating! Is not Skyrim our own land?"

"What else does it say?" Mjoll asked.

"Nothing much," Eirik sighed. "Just more of the same, saying that they're taking over Skyrim from the Nords and pretty much says what they're doing in Windhelm. I had no idea this was even happening. It puts these rumors in another light."

"Rumors?"

"The rumors I've heard in the other holds," Eirik said. "About Ulfric's behavior to non-Nords in Windhelm. The way Crixus would have it, Ulfric is a genocidal maniac, but this book...it puts his deeds in a different life."

"Isn't he the leader of the rebellion?" Mjoll asked.

"Aye."

"Could it not also be that he has not time for such affairs?" she suggested. "I mean, he's the military leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, and he would have to have all of his time devoted to the war and delegate the running of the city to his steward."

Eirik nodded, but closed the book and placed it beneath the seat, angry at what he had just read. They had a long ride ahead of them and this, soon, was to become the least of his worries. Hours or so had passed and the cart ground to a halt. As Alfarinn was speaking to someone with a high Cyrodilic accent, Eirik lifted his head up from where he had been nodding off to see what it was. To his surprise, he saw the cart was stopped by a group of at least four gold-skinned Altmer and five others. From their robes - black with gold-gilt linings - he knew exactly who they were: Thalmor. The others were Nords by the looks of them, a man, his wife, and their three children. The eldest of the children, a youth almost twenty, had his head bowed low and blood on his face, while the other two, young girls, had fear and worry in their eyes. They were all in chains, being held by the three Thalmor still in line.

"Hello, there," Alfarinn greeted the Thalmor who approached him.

"You are in our way," the elf sneered. "Get this cart off the road, we're on urgent business."

"Well, so am I," Alfarinn returned. "As it turns out, I'm going south and this is the only road thataways."

"Irrelevant," the elf said. "Our business supersedes yours, now clear off!"

"But I'm ferrying a couple to Riften!" Alfarinn protested. "They paid me good money to get them there before dark."

"We'll pay you something more, _Nord_," the elf sneered, as though the word stank in his nostrils. "It's not much, but it should be worth enough to you to convince you to surrender the road to us!"

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"Your life," the elf said, then drew a sword from his robes. The others drew swords as well, always with one hand open. These must be justicars, the sorcerers who patrolled Skyrim, abducting people from their homes who worshiped Talos.

"Look here, I don't want any trouble!" Alfarinn returned, worry in his voice. "I'm just a poor carriage driver, really! I only live in Windhelm because the coin is good. I'm not a rebel, I worship Arkay! I've even got an amulet, I'll show you..."

"Insolent Nordic dog!" the elf shouted. "You should have moved when we showed you mercy. Now we'll take your cart and drag you _and_ these scum back to Cyrodiil for a proper punishment."

"It's not punishment to worship the Nine," the man in chains spoke up.

"Kill him," the lead Thalmor said to his subordinates. The mother and her daughters cried out and begged for his life to be spared, even falling on their knees, something no Nord would ever have done. The lead Thalmor merely laughed. "Now you know where you belong, scum. You ape-faced rats should know when you're conquered, and his death will remind you."

"Children, close your eyes!" the mother ordered.

"No!" the Thalmor leader ordered. "Hold their eyes open. I want them to see what happens to fools who speak of Talos and freedom."

"Don't weep for me," the man said as the Thalmor threw him to the ground. "The ancestors are smiling on me. They will protect you!"

"Stop!" Eirik shouted. He had had enough! He rose up from the carriage, eying the lead Thalmor with great disgust.

"Go back to your mead hall, pale-skinned little monkey!" he sneered. "You have no place in the business of your betters."

"Tall talk coming from a sallow-faced b*tch," Eirik returned. "Terrorizing women and children? Ordering this good man to leave the road so he doesn't see your cruelty?" Eirik leaped out of the wagon and drew out his great-sword. "What's the matter? Afraid to fight someone who can fight back?"

"Insolent dog!" the elf shouted. He looked at the other elves at his side. "Kill the family, then kill him."

"You touch a hair on their heads," Eirik threatened. "And I'll break off your fingers one by one while you yet live!"

"Let's kill him now!" one of the elves replied. "He's already breaking the law by hindering us."

"No, kill the family first!" the leader ordered.

"_Tiid!_" Eirik shouted. Once again, all was moving slower than honey. He saw the Thalmor with his sword at the throat of the father, then pulled out his own knife and threw it at him. If he could, he might be able to slay the others before his Thu'um dissipated. He drew out his great-sword and ran towards the other two hoping to take their heads off in one blow...

_Boom!_ Time ran its course again and he failed to decapitate the other two. But he had gotten the jump on them and his blade cut deep into the elf's shoulder, while the other one stumbled backwards, then fell as the body of his comrade fell backwards on top of him, sending them both down. Quickly, he turned to the other one, lying face up on the ground, with Eirik's dagger in his chest. He was straining to get up, but Eirik brought his great-sword down upon the elf's face. He turned towards the other two, then suddenly collapsed, every fiber of his body twitching and convulsing, his hands gripping tightly to the hilt of his sword.

"Ha!" the lead elf shouted triumphantly. "Stupid Nord! Always running in blindly, sword a-swinging. But brains can always defeat your brawn!"

"Coward!" Eirik groaned, his nerves still screaming in pain as he tried to push himself back up. "Can't fight me on your own, so you resort to your..." But his sentence was cut short as a wave of lightning struck him down once again onto the cold, hard ground.

"Down, Nord!" the elf sneered. "Grovel on your belly before me! That's right, know your place before your true and lawful masters, the Altmeri Domi..." Then, like he had done to Eirik, the elf was cut short. Mjoll had jumped from the wagon and tackled him to the ground.

As Eirik began recovering, he saw one of the wounded Thalmor reaching for his sword with eyes set on one of the Nord children. Eirik pushed himself up and crawled over to the elf, striking him in the face with his fist before taking the elf's own sword and pinning his right hand to the ground with it. As the elf cried out, Eirik reached over and seized the elf's hand in his own, then turned back to the family.

"Look away," he said, then turned back to the elf. With both hands, starting with the smallest finger, Eirik began breaking the elf's fingers one by one, until his left hand was twisted and dead. Then he tore the sword out of the elf's hand and thrust it into his throat.

"May the Eight strike you down!" one of the elves cried. Eirik turned and saw the wounded one whom he had hit with his sword.

"Stand up," Eirik said to the elf. "Die on your feet with dignity."

"Like how you murdered Telerac?" the wounded elf shouted. "No, I won't give you the satisfaction, you Talos cock-sucker!"

Eirik walked towards the wounded elf very slowly, then drew out his great-sword and hacked the elf's head off in one swift blow.

"You think you've won?" the lead elf shouted. Eirik turned and saw that he had his sword drawn in one hand and his other sending bolts of lightning into Mjoll, fallen and twitching on the ground. "You can't stop the inevitable! Our day is coming. Soon we shall rule _all_ of Tamriel and drive you pigs back into the sea where you came from! You're nothing, Stormcloak!"

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted. The Thalmor exploded like a mead barrel being struck by a heavy steel war-hammer, spilling his crimson blood everywhere. With a weary exhale, Eirik sighed and then turned to the family.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, thanks to you," the man said. "You...you're the one the legends spoke of: the Dragonborn."

"Yes?" Eirik asked.

"By Ysmir!" he exclaimed, then turned to his family. "Oh, what a joyous occasion! We have seen the coming of the Dragonborn, the one who will end all our suffering."

"Listen," Eirik said. "I'm a man just like the rest of you." He then walked over to one of the dead Thalmor and removed the keys. He then addressed himself to finding the right key for their locks. "You should go. Take your family to Windhelm, you will be safer there than wherever you were."

"Oh, there won't be any safety in Skyrim," the woman said. "Not with the dragons and these elves terrorizing our people."

"Go," Eirik said. "May Talos guide you to safety."

They said appropriate greetings to him one by one as they went on their way. Eirik told the man to take the Thalmor weapons for himself, his wife and his son as well, in case they encountered wild animals, bandits or any other Thalmor along the way. Once they were thus armed, they left and Eirik turned his attention to Mjoll, who had already jumped into the wagon.

"Hiding, are we?" Eirik asked as he heaved himself up into the back.

"This is your moment, Dragonborn," she said teasingly.

"And what about you?" he asked. "What do you get from our time together?"

"I can journey across Skyrim once again because of you," she said. "And I have no need of fame. As I told you before..."

"Gratitude and trust, I remember," Eirik repeated. Mjoll smiled and he laughed. "What?"

"You remember better than most men I've met," she said.

"You must not have met many men, I take it."

"Oh, Aerin is a gentleman, no doubt about that," Mjoll stated. "And he listens rather attentively, he's like a little dog, sometimes. But it's different: I know that he worships me, but...it's mostly because he sees me as the only hope for Riften. And that's good, but there's something else that is missing from that...a more personal appreciation."

"Oi!" a voice spoke up. They turned and saw Alfarinn looking back at them. "Save it for the Temple of Mara in Riften. We haven't got all day, shall we go now or wait to be benighted?"

"Go on, then," Eirik said.

* * *

It was evening when the cart finally rolled up to the northern gate of Riften. Alfarinn had lit a lamp and its light had guided them along the road. When at last they were within sight of the gate, Alfarinn brought the cart to a halt and unpacked a heavy cloth tarp which he told them they should hide under.

"Why?" Mjoll asked. "It's just Riften, we know the risks."

"Even so," he said. "Things have gotten worse in the past few days. You might want to cover up."

Eventually they conceded, and were wrapped in total darkness as Alfarinn cracked the whip and the horse went trotting onward. The cart rumbled gently beneath them, as though it were rocking the two of them to sleep. In the dark, Eirik felt a hand rest upon his shoulder: he guessed it was Mjoll's hand, yet he guessed not where she was. Finally the cart came to a halt and Eirik heard a man speaking to Alfarinn.

"What have you got there?" he asked. To Eirik's fear, the voice had a thick Cyrodilic accent.

"Nothing much," Alfarinn replied.

"Uh-huh," the Cyrodilian said. "Open it up, now. Come on, Nord! There's been another attack by bandits in the city square, we need to make sure no one is letting them into the city."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that," Alfarinn stated.

"Why not?" the Cyrodilian replied. While Alfarinn stammered, Eirik heard the Imperial laugh. "You Nords think you're entitled just because you're in Skyrim? You're nothing, just the thralls of the Emperor. You should know your place, now open up that cart."

"I can't!" Alfarinn shouted. "It's...it's from Whiterun. A shipment of mead for the Black-Briar meadery."

"Hmm," the Imperial snorted. "Rather late for a delivery, isn't it?"

"I was waylaid near near Valtheim," Alfarinn stated. "Stormcloaks. But I'm here, now will you let me in?"

"Stormcloaks, huh? Well, that certainly seems likely. Still, I should check the cargo just to be sure."

"I'm sorry," Alfarinn continued. "But this shipment was due to arrive here on the sixth of Frostfall. Maven Black-Briar will have my hide if it's any later. You know what she could do to those who cross her."

"Yes, I know that," the guard conceded sorrowfully. "I think I can make an exception this time. But don't think I won't be watching the next time you bring your little cart into town. Get moving, Nord."

The cart kicked back up and they tumbled along for about a hundred paces when at last the cart came to a halt. The tarp was then removed and Alfarinn whispered to them.

"Hurry up now," he said. "We haven't much time, the patrol will be back."

"What was that?" Mjoll asked.

"Imperial soldiers," Alfarinn stated.

"What?" Eirik queried incredulously. "I thought Riften was sympathetic towards the rebellion."

"The Empire took Riften, eight days ago," he said.

"What happened?" Mjoll asked, her voice shocked.

"There's no time," Alfarinn said. "I have to get you inside. Here, to the back wall of the stable."

They got out of the cart and followed Alfarinn to the back of the stable, where there was, hidden behind a bail of hay, a wooden door which he opened up. Behind it was a tunnel so small, they would have to crawl through on their hands and knees. Alfarinn ushered them towards the door.

"Tell no one you came in this way," he said. "If you have friends, stay with them, pretend you've been here since before the occupation. And be especially wary, things have indeed gotten worse in Riften."

"Thank you," Mjoll said.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "Give it a few days and you'll be thanking me to help you leave. Now get in there and don't make a sound, for Talos' sake!"

Without another word, Mjoll and Eirik crawled through the tunnel. It was long and dark and there was no room to move, which Eirik hated. Tight, close corridors made him uneasy at the best of times and, on bad days, made him practically raving to be released. At least a whole minute passed before they passed through the pitch blackness of the tunnel and into the dimly lit streets of Riften. Immediately they saw that things were different. There were more guards about, all of them in Imperial armor. The Riften town guards were nowhere to be found. Each of these Imperial soldiers bore torches, which illuminated the streets with an eerie gloom. In their light they saw several other figures walking about in the shadows, all of them glad in black gear that melted into the darkness, making them appear as nothing more than shadows.

One of those figures then turned towards them and started walking towards them. It said nothing as it advanced and made no sound. Eirik placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

"Alright, that's close enough," he said. The figure took a step forward and Eirik drew out his sword. "I said that's close enough! One more step and you'll lose a foot!"

"Is that you?" a Cyrodilic accented voice asked.

"Aerin?"

"Mjoll!" the shade approached them, a dagger in his hand. "It _is_ you! Come on, it's not safe out of doors at night."

"Is it _ever_ safe in Riften at night?" asked Eirik.

"No, but it's even worse now," he said. "Hurry, they might see you."

* * *

Aerin led Eirik and Mjoll through the dark streets of the city to his house on the eastern side of the town. After fiddling with his keys, he opened the door and ushered them in. It was just as cold within the walls of his house as it had been in the mist-filled streets of Riften. Once the door was sealed and bolted securely, Aerin began lighting the candles he had on his end table.

"You shouldn't have left Riften," he said. "Things got worse about five days after you left."

"Yes," Mjoll said. "We heard about the Empire taking the city."

"How did it happen?" Eirik asked.

"Laila's steward Anuriel," Aerin began. "Apparently there was some sort of scandal where she had been withholding supplies and weapon shipments to Windhelm and someone blew the whistle on her. So, about the time you two left, she had a shipment sent that way."

"Yes, I remember," Eirik said. "I wrestled a sabre-cat there."

"Well, did you care to ask the guards what happened to the booty?" Aerin asked. "Gone, all of it. Looted by bandits, was the official word. But Sven, the stable-boy who works for Hofgrir at the stables, told me that he saw someone attacking the caravan, one person. Not a bandit group, but one man."

"One man?" Mjoll asked incredulously.

"I know," Aerin said. "The rumors that run around Skyrim are amazing, but, hey, one man also shouted a king to pieces and sent the Imperial army flying off the walls of Markarth, so who am I to argue against the power of one man? Nevertheless, about eight days ago, Imperial soldiers sneaked into Riften through the Ratways. Not a soul was killed, not a drop of blood shed. They reached Mistveil Keep and surrounded the Jarl, ordered her to leave Riften with her family. All but Saerlund left, he was excited that the Empire had come to liberate Riften or whatever. Thought he was going to be the new Jarl. But the Imperial legate had someone else in mind."

"Who?" Eirik asked.

"Maven Black-Briar," Aerin replied.

"Maven Black-Briar!" Mjoll exclaimed, slamming her fist angrily on the table, jostling all the candles.

"Shh, not so loud!" Aerin hushed. "There's curfew, that's why I can't light anything brighter than these candles!"

"Maven Black-Briar?" Mjoll repeated. "The Empire really gave control of Riften to that-that...that _thug?_ That bandit?! That crime-lord whose made life hell for everyone in Riften?"

"She has powerful friends," Aerin said. "I guess one of her friends in the Imperial City made sure that she would get control of Riften if it fell to the Empire." He scoffed mirthlessly. "Ironic, she controlled Riften before, now she wants to control it in name as well as in actuality."

"Her connections go deeper than that," Eirik said. "Before I came to Riften, when I was undercover at the Thalmor Embassy, she was there."

"Right," Mjoll said. "You never finished telling me the story of your adventures."

"Because we were too busy in new ones as it were," Eirik chuckled. "Still, some day when we're out in the wilds, I'll tell you the rest from where we left off."

"What happened to Anuriel?" Mjoll asked.

"The Empire threw her in the Riften jail," Aerin said. "I guess they didn't feel comfortable having a traitor in their midst."

"Then why have Maven Black-Briar serve as Jarl?" Mjoll replied. "She's friends with the Thieves Guild _and_ the Thalmor and-and the Empire, and I wouldn't put it past her that she's friendly with the Dark Brotherhood also."

"Whoa, the Dark Brotherhood is a myth," Aerin stated. "No one's heard a whisper of them since the Oblivion Crisis."

"So how have things changed?" Mjoll asked.

"Remember the guards in Riften?" Aerin continued. "The Empire has a garrison here, at least a hundred troops all over the city. They drove the city guards out, though they've been hunting them ever since. Most of them have turned to banditry, but some of the more loyal ones, either to Laila or the Stormcloak rebellion, have organized a resistance against the Imperial occupation. Sometimes they'll sneak into a city and pick fights with the guards, but they usually end up dead or in jail. There's curfews, as you've seen, and the Thieves Guild has practically free reign in Riften. The Empire keeps the peace, or so they say, and the Thieves Guild act as Maven's secret police. No one can make a few septims without losing most of it to robbery."

"Shameful," Mjoll groaned. "Utterly shameful. Has anything _good_ happened?"

"I heard the old fort in the eastern hills is being opened up," Aerin said. "The Dawnguard is using it for recruitment."

Eirik suddenly stepped forward, a wary look in his eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said the Dawnguard are recruiting," Aerin repeated. "They're using the old fort as their training grounds."

"By the Nine!" Eirik exclaimed. "Aerin, you're one in a million."

"Oh, it's nothing," Aerin blushed. "Just doing my job, gathering news and such." He looked back at them. "Wait, you're not planning on going there right _now_?"

"Why not?" Mjoll asked.

"Because it's night and the curfew is in effect," Aerin continued. "And the Dawnguard was reorganized for a reason! There were reports of a vampire attack in Hjaalmarch around the seventh of last month."

Eirik averted his eyes, remembering what had happened after his encounter with Lydia and the oracle of Dibella.

"And on the fifteenth of Heartfire," Aerin stated. "There were reports from across Skyrim that the order of holy warriors known as the Vigilance of Stendarr were attacked early that morning. None of them survived. Obviously there are vampires abroad in Skyrim, even if people don't believe in vampires anymore. Yes, I know the stories: they were the most revered vampire hunters in Skyrim, then when vampires started diminishing in number, people pretty much called for them to be either killed or disbanded. And one can hardly blame them: at the time, they were doing like the Thalmor are rumored to do, raiding towns at night, pillaging houses, the works."

"Your point, please," Eirik spoke up. "Where is this all leading?"

"As I was saying, _sir_," Aerin continued. "Not only is it dangerous going out at night in Skyrim for all the normal reasons and there is a curfew in order, vampires are abroad and they hunt in the dark. If you go out now, you two would be torn to pieces before you could as much cry out for anyone's help." He sighed as he held up his knife. "And this won't do much for them. Might as well spend the night here while you can and be off early in the morning."

"It will be just like old times, eh?" Mjoll said, turning to Eirik.

"Aye, just like old times."

* * *

**(AN: Good place to end this chapter, no cliff-hangar and a good word count. Tons of words, though, so I guess I'm doing something right.)**

**(I was just starting to forget about all the troubles in Skyrim when I was writing for Solstheim, and then we get back and I read _Dunmer of Skyrim_ and remembered that bad shit is happening. For the sake of all you Imperials out there, I included Brunwulf Free-Winter, champion of elf-kind and Imperial candidate for Jarl of Windhelm who is nevertheless racist against Argonians and Khajiit. And I got to have Rolff, the village idiot of Windhelm, to make you feel better about your hatred of Nords. But yes, the White-Gold Concordant doesn't keep the Dominion out of Skyrim, it lets them police around like I said in the author's note of a previous chapter.)**

**(Thankfully, however, I won't be doing that many civil war quest-line stories in the near future as the contextual clues indicate that we're going _Dawnguard_.)**


	43. The Dawnguard

**(AN: Hmm, no reviews. Oh well, there's still plenty of story to go around and it looks like you, _Cyrus_, are falling behind with the updates. Oh well, computer issues are excusable [i certainly use them for why my updates are so infrequent, lol])**

* * *

**The Dawnguard**

Morning found Eirik waking up outside of the door to Mjoll's room in Aerin's house. Strange how they had progressed in their friendship: at first, she wouldn't let him near her when she was sleeping, now they were sharing a bed-roll and he was sleeping at the foot of her door. He sighed pleasantly, hoping and wondering as he had so oft concerning Mjoll the Lioness. He wondered if she was trusting him more for a reason. He could see something in her smile and yet he could only dare to hope what that might be.

When they awoke, they awoke to a meager, mirthless meal. As it had been, the Empire was rationing food in Riften, sending most of it out to the cities in their hold and the various camps dotting the plains and valleys of Skyrim. But they had plenty packed with them from Solstheim and didn't have to fear much if they ran out. Mjoll assured Eirik over and over that she knew how to find food from the plants in the wild and kept more than a few hunting tricks from her father: all of these, of course, were riddled with regaling her audience with the tales of her many journeys.

At last, they shouldered their gear once again and passed out of Aerin's house and turned their sights towards the eastern mountain-range. After they passed the guard-towers that flanked the road leading to Riften, they struck off from the road and began walking through the forests. Aspens reared their golden heads high above them and covered the ground with leaves that made even the ground beneath their feet look as though it were paved of gold. Thus they walked for many an hour, until the sun had climbed high over the Velothi Mountains which bordered Morrowind and was shedding its light down upon them all. About midday, they had now passed beyond the Forelhost barrow and were in the south-eastern corner of the Rift, which, if one so chose, could lead him or her to Morrowind or Cyrodiil depending on which road they took. For the better part of their journey, the animals were either asleep or hiding from the approach of these two humans.

"Ah, it feels good to be walking through familiar land," Mjoll exhaled. "When the weather permitted, Aerin and I would often walk the Rift's forests. The trees here are so beautiful."

"Fascinating," Eirik replied.

"Come now," Mjoll added. "Since we have a long way to go this morning, let us ease the passage of time with some lively conversation. Like, how about we exchange stories, huh? I remember this one time in Cyrodiil when I was on a ferry through one of the rivers. There are many rivers in Cyrodiil, even more than here in Skyrim. Anyway, our boat was attacked by what, at the time, seemed like a school of slaughter-fish. There were enough of them to tip the boat over and send me and the boatman tumbling into the river. But the worst part of it was I think one of the fish were infected with Greenspore. The boatman was bit by them and was extraordinarily rude the rest of the day!" Mjoll chuckled, then saw that Eirik was not laughing. "It's funny, because you never thought of a disease that affects your personality, right?"

"If you say so," he returned.

"Anyway, go on, tell me about your travels," Mjoll returned. "The last I recall was that you met Lydia who was your new huscarl."

"Actually," Eirik said. "There is an interesting story about how we first came to the Rift."

"I thought you first came to the Rift when we met during Heartfire," Mjoll retorted.

"No, I had been in the Rift before," Eirik said. "But I had never been to Riften until the day we first met. There is another way into the Rift, on the slopes of the Throat of the World. It is a winding narrow path that followed a waterfall from higher up."

"Oh, that would be from Lake Geir, near Ivarsted," Mjoll commented.

"Yes," he continued. "But that path is quite dangerous, though it is very close to the mountain-side and offers travelers an easy way to access Ivarsted, and the heights of High Hrothgar..."

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, the sun was far away in the Reach, and Eirik Dragonborn and Lydia the huscarl were walking through the woods and brush that skirted about the northern flanks of the Throat of the World, the highest mountain in Skyrim. When they had left Whiterun that morning, Lydia told him of a short-cut to take that would cut down a journey to High Hrothgar by at least two days. But this short-cut turned out to be quite difficult, with most of their path laid on the mountain-side which slanted unevenly and was filled with sharp and loose rocks.

"Shouldn't we just take the road?" Eirik asked.

"Are you _sure_ you're a Nord?" Lydia replied.

"Watch your tongue, now," Eirik shot back. "Remember who's in charge, here."

"Yes yes, I know," she sighed. "But it would be a complete waste of time if we took the road."

"What do you mean?"

"The road does not pass into the borders of the Rift until the mountains to the east, the ones that border Morrowind," Lydia began. "If we go this way, we can reach Ivarsted at night-fall and brave High Hrothgar in the morning."

"No, we're going up tonight," he said. "This dragon business is rather disturbing, and if I'm the only one who can stop it..."

"Don't let it go to your head," Lydia returned. "You're still mortal and liable to freeze to death if we walk up the mountain in the dead of the cold night. Not to mention the things that have been told to live up on the mountain. Many a pilgrim have been cut down by wolves or trolls on their fateful climb, had they the ill-fate to be benighted."

"I killed a fucking dragon," Eirik said. "I think I can handle whatever this mountain has to offer."

"Shh!" Lydia hushed. "Do you hear that?"

They paused for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind in the air and the gentle rustling of the trees. Then they heard it, low and soft at first, like a large beast breathing. They turned around and saw a large bear on its hind-legs, growling and beating the air with its paws. Eirik drew out his great-sword and Lydia gripped her sword and shield.

"I'll distract it," Lydia said as she ran forward, shield up. "You come in from the side and run it through."

Without a second word, Eirik dodged right and thrust his sword into the bear's throat. The huge creature fell on top of him, practically crushing him out by how heavy it was. With a loud grunt, Lydia set her shoulder into the bear's carcass and helped to push it off Eirik.

"You're stronger than you look," Eirik laughed.

"I'm a Nord," Lydia said. "Even when small, we're stronger than any Cyrodilian man."

The two, having slain the bear, rose up, cleaned off their swords and Eirik then took out his sword and got to work skinning the beast. It would fetch a fine price at any general store-man in Skyrim.

"Don't forget the claws," Lydia said. "Arcadia will pay handsomely for those."

Once the bear was skinned and its claws were in a bag about Eirik's belt, they made their way back on to the path upon which they had first set out. They passed on from the hilly country into a wide ravine where a river ran noisily over many rocks on its way down to join the many steaming pools of the Eastmarch behind them in the northern valley. Evening was falling with all still around them save for the babbling stream. Far above, in the hills above, they heard the call of an old crow, yet all about them was quiet and peaceful.

* * *

"Ah, the beauty of Skyrim," Mjoll interrupted. "You know, people say Skyrim is one of the most dangerous places in Tamriel. I think they're wrong: it's magnificent and I'm proud to call it home."

Eirik laughed. "Uh, wonderful. Listen, can we please get back to the story?"

"Look over yonder," Mjoll spoke, pointing outwards along the road.

Before them the road passed down into a long and broad valley, filled with beautiful aspen trees, their boughs heavy with golden leaves and their bark white as snow. In the distance, they could hear the endless roar of a waterfall.

"Aye," Eirik commented. "Skyrim _is_ beautiful. This is exactly the sounds we heard on the trail, Lydia and I. But that bear was not the first thing we encountered, no! We had not walked but a single bow-shot when suddenly we were attacked by..."

"Look!" Mjoll exclaimed. "Someone on the road."

"A sabre-cat," Eirik stated. But Mjoll was on her way and Eirik followed after her. The man they saw walking on the road was a Nord: they could tell he was a Nord by his clothes and his frame and his long, blond hair.

"Hail, kinsman," Eirik greeted.

"Oh, hey there!" the man returned the greeting. "Are you here to join the Dawnguard too?"

"I am indeed."

"Well," the man said. "The truth is, I'm a little nervous. I've never done anything like this before. I hope you don't mind if I tag along with you two?"

"You know the way?" Mjoll asked.

"Oh, yes," the man replied. "It's in the valley on the other side of those hills, just follow me." He then turned to Eirik. "Hey, uh, don't tel Isran I was afraid to meet him by myself. Not the best impression for a new vampire hunter, I guess."

"As you wish," Eirik returned.

They walked down into the valley, where they saw the source of the rushing water. There was indeed a waterfall upon the cliffs, a huge waterfall that poured down into a wide river at the edge of the mountainside. The road snaked along its side and they paused for a short time at the water's edge. The man knelt down at the shore and splashed the cold water on his face.

"My apologies, friends," he said. "I've come all the way from Dawnstar. My name is Agmaer."

They did not share their names but greeted him with kind words, then went on their way with the young man in the lead. The path wound away from the water's edge and began going uphill. Here the trees began to gather about the path, some of them aspens and some pines, which were rare in the Rift. Suddenly the path went along a high cliff-wall on the left-hand side with trees on the right. Just beyond, they could see the path snaking to the left before it was hidden by the side of the hill. Eirik started to commence with the telling of his story when a rabbit scurried across the path. Though they halted for a brief moment to admire this, they started going again when Mjoll suddenly noticed that Agmaer had halted in front of them. The path led down a narrow valley with the cliffs on both sides and trees here and there. He was staring up at a large castle nestled up in the high mountains above their heads.

"That must be it," Agmaer said. "Fort Dawnguard. It's bigger than I expected. Come on, let's go."

The three of them entered the narrow pass, whose sides were both widened by the occasional fallen log or rocks from the latest avalanches. The path wound about for a bow-shot or two before it passed over a hill and opened up on the final valley. Upon the flanks of the mountain was built a giant castle, built in the Cyrodilic fashion after the old buildings in the Imperial City rather than anything in Windhelm, Solitude or Markarth. Tall were its many towers, grim and austere, all of them made of stone.

"No one's here," the young Nord man said. "This place almost looks deserted."

They walked on until they came to a palisade made of wooden posts the size of tree-trunks. Beyond there were a few things which showed that people were here; a forge, a smithy, several archery targets and a blacksmith's bench. Agmaer ran forward with Mjoll and Eirik taking up the rear. As they passed on beneath the walls of the castle, they saw that there were indeed people here. An orc was practicing his aim with a crossbow at one of the targets as they passed up towards where they guessed the main gate of the castle was located.

"Another recruit?" the orc said as they passed. "Good to see we're not alone here. Isran's the one you want: Redguard. Up in the castle."

Mjoll thanked him for the directions and they followed Agmaer on up to the gates of the castle. The great iron portcullis was pulled up and the gates were held open. At the foot of the gate were wide, flat steps made of stone. Up these they went and passed into the shelter of the mighty castle. As they passed through the gates, they saw Agmaer standing on the edge of a great wide room of stone, with banners streaming from the second story, and an oculus that showered light down into the center part of the room. In the center, flooded by light, were two figures: one was clad in a white tabard over gray clothes, bearing an amulet of an inverted ox's horn. This was the emblem of the Vigilants of Stendarr, a group of holy warriors dedicated on ridding the world of daedra worshipers. They once had headquarters in the Pale, but, as Aerin had told them, things had changed. Opposite the vigilant stood a Redguard, dark of skin, dressed in light armor. This must be Isran, Eirik mused. He was bald but had a great beard about his chin. His face bore a grim expression. Though he was not a Nord, Eirik saw that this man deserved respect. He spoke with authority and, at the moment, was berating the vigilant.

"Why are you here, Tolan?" he asked. "The Vigilants and I were finished with each other a long time ago."

"You know why I'm here," Vigilant Tolan replied. "The Vigilants are under attack everywhere." He sighed. "The vampires are more dangerous than we believed."

"And now," Isran replied. "You want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?" He scoffed. "I remember your Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Fort Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now, that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?"

"Isran," Vigilant Tolan said grimly, taking a step forward. "Carcette is dead. The Hall of the Vigilants...everyone...they're all dead! We were wrong, you were right. Isn't that enough for you?"

"I'm sorry," Isran sighed. "I never wanted any of this to happen. But I did try to warn you, all of you."

"Ahem!" Eirik cleared his throat loudly.

"So who are you?" Isran asked, turning to examine the Nord who approached him. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to join the Dawnguard," Eirik replied.

"Good," Isran said with a grim smile. "I'm glad that word's gotten out. But that means it won't be long before the vampires start taking notice as well. I'm almost certain they will have watched the canyon and when you leave, they'll follow you, or send some of their own to kill you somewhere in the dead of night."

"I understand," Eirik replied. "What can I do to help?"

"Well," Isran began. "We're not exactly ready to take on a vampire attack immediately, so we'll need to dig in and finish repairing the defenses here. With that in mind, I need people in the field, taking the fight to those damn vampires." He turned to the vigilant. "Tell him."

"There was a cave in the Pale," Vigilant Tolan said to Eirik. "The locals called it Dimhollow Crypt. At first we thought it was a coven dedicated to Molag Bal, but when we went there, we found vampires. After we slew some and questioned the others, Vigilant Brother Adulvald was convinced it held some ancient vampire artifact of some kind. We never paid any heed to what he said...or to Isran. Now he lies dead in the ruins of the Hall of the Vigilants."

"Get your ass over to Dimhollow," Isran said to Eirik. "Try to find what the vampires were looking for: with any luck, they might still be there."

"Is there room to spend the night here?" Eirik asked. "I know it's midday, but it's a long way to the Pale and..."

"There's not much," Isran interjected. "Not yet, at least. But you're welcome to use anything we have. Although, I wouldn't recommend going forth in the middle of the night. With your arrival here doubtless spotted by the vampires, they'll be coming after you next."

"I'll keep that in mind," Eirik returned. He then walked over to the archway that led to the great gate. Mjoll turned about and approached him from behind, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"So," she asked cheerfully. "Where are we off to next?"

"We'll go that way," Eirik said. "North-west, the general direction of the Pale. But I have another place to go before I can go to the Pale."

"Where is that?" Mjoll asked.

"High Hrothgar," he answered. "The Throat of the World."

* * *

**(AN: Well, no one seems to be reviewing, so I might as well put in some game-related humor, like Mjoll interrupting dialogue with her quotes. Also trying to be a bit more descriptive, hope that helps. Yay, I'm bringing Redguards into the picture. They will become more important later on, so don't worry. Please leave your thoughts and comments below in the review section. I will try to get a new chapter out as soon as possible.)**


	44. Throat of the World

**(AN: So now that _Vikings_ is done, I can return with both my story here as well as my original compilation story _Heroes of Asgard_. What that is is pretty much an amalgam of all the known Norse legends into one giant story that focuses on the Norse gods more than the Norsemen themselves. If you're interested in following that, it's on _FictionPress_)**

**(A few things to say about this chapter. I think Mjoll has a High Hrothgar quote, but I don't know what that is, because nobody's put up her quotes anywhere. Also, here's an interesting little tidbit. I had originally planned on having a third Dragonborn who was female, based off of Kristen Nedopak's Dragonborn from the _Lydia_ parodies. However, as even two Dragonborns was not well-received [yet people don't mind _Dragonborn_ or the other multi-DB fics on here], and she didn't serve much of a purpose, I decided against it. But, in homage to her epic humor, I put a scene similar to one from her parody videos in this story. It is, of course, based on Lydia's annoying habit of getting in everyone's way, which we've all faced if we've had Lydia as our follower, so it's kind of game-based but also I just wanted to give credit where credit's due. If you haven't watched her videos, watch them, they're funny as hell, especially "Carry These Burdens.")**

**(Thank you for the review, _Cyrus_. Maybe I should lay off the building up to Eirik and Mjoll getting down, huh? Also, yes, I do put them through shit, but that's because every time they make it out, it shows just how awesome they are! A bad-ass warrior hero, the invincible Lioness and the Imperial Nightingale [you didn't really hear that, because that would be a terrible, terrible thing! -lol-] shouldn't have it easy, they NEED big challenges to test their individual skill as well as if they can get over their own personal hatreds and work together. I actually thought I had been accomplishing that so far, but I guess not. Don't worry, we're back in Skyrim, we will definitely have another random one, though I can't think of anything cooler than Sosyoldinok ["Blood Fire Death", just think of _Bathory_'s fourth album] so it might be unnamed. And yes, Eirik still has the Bloodskal blade, and I did mention it during the chapter in Raven Rock mine, I guess that wasn't apparent enough, but it will be in the next chapter.)**

**(Now, back to _Skyrim..._)**

* * *

**Throat of the World**

The day had continued on without any incident. After leaving the Dawnguard Fort, Eirik and Mjoll turned west and south, hoping to pass Riften all together and reach Ivarstead by dusk at the very least. With the discovery that the Empire had taken it over, Eirik decided that it would not do to spend too much time there, especially considering that he was currently a member of the Stormcloak rebellion. So they set out along the southern outback of the Rift, where they would evade the eyes of the Empire as far as the orc camp Largashbur. From there, they would set out north and arrive in Ivarstead, well away from the prying eyes of the garrison at the Imperial camp in the south-west.

It was now closing towards evening, and Mjoll and Eirik had come to a halt beneath two aspen trees which grew together. As it was cold in and mid Frostfall, Eirik and Mjoll had pushed a fallen log up against one of the trees and used it to block the wind. Night was still some ways away, but they were both tired from carrying their gear and foot-sore. They laid down their gear and sat beneath the tree, eager to take wind after a long, arduous march across the Rift.

"You've been rather quiet lately," Eirik said.

"Hmm?" Mjoll asked. "Oh, I'm sorry. I think we're being followed."

"Followed?"

"Since we passed by the southern border of Riften," Mjoll said. "I've had the distinct feeling we're being tracked."

"It could be the bears," Eirik said. "You know, there have been quite a few bears in this part of the Rift. Temba Wide-Arm in Ivarstead told me that when I first arrived, and there was the bear Lydia and I fought."

"What else did you meet?" she asked.

"A troll," he said.

"No!" she replied. "Really?"

"Two of them," Eirik stated. "One was on the mountain, and it almost meant the death of both of us. The other, well, that wasn't that bad, but it wouldn't have been as much of a trial were it not for the sabre-cat we fought almost immediately before."

"Indeed?"

"Aye," he nodded.

"Lydia had to pretty much tackle the beast off me," he said. "Then the troll attacked, swiped her away off with one blow, then it turned on me. I held my own, but it had the strength of ten men. My armor was dented on the rocks and I was bruised rather badly. But as it came after me, Lydia took it down with a sword thrust to the knee. Then she helped me back up and we finished it off. That was when she told me that sabre-cats could be wrestled by those who knew how to engage them if corned by one alone in the wilds"

"It seems I've rather underestimated Lydia," Mjoll replied, rolling her eyes. "You put much stock in here."

"She's a strong warrior," Eirik replied. "And her advice has saved my life several times. But she is my sword-thane, nothing more."

Mjoll nodded, but said nothing more. Instead, she cast her eyes north-westward, towards the great mountain now casting long shadows across their path. "We should be in Ivarsted once the shadows set in. It will be like old times, eh?"

"Hopefully not," Eirik said. "I would hate to fight the Thalmor in my sleep."

"I've heard the stories about the many pilgrimages to High Hrothgar," Mjoll said. "But I've never been there myself. Can you tell me what it's like?"

"It's colder up there than anywhere I've been in Skyrim," Eirik said. "High Hrothgar, the home of the Graybeards, isn't much warmer either, but it keeps most of the wind out. There are many beasts about on the path up the mountain, the fabled Seven Thousand Steps."

"Are there _really_ seven thousand steps?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied. "I never counted them." Mjoll laughed.

"Tell me all about what happened there," she said. "I'm dying to hear a good story."

"Well," Eirik stated. "We should be going, so I don't have all day to tell a story, but I will share what I can."

They went about gathering their gear before continuing on the final march, the one that would put them in Ivarstead at nightfall. Once they had their gear together, Eirik began his story.

"The first steps up the mountain were not very hard," he said. "Once we were well above the town, three wolves attacked, but they were no match to us. The snows began to set in and we found the going even harder. The path was not straight forward. Sometimes it would disappear in a drift of snow, or the shelf on which a portion had been built had crumbled and we would have to strike off to continue our way. The snow was thick and the wind blinding, and ever the howl of wolves were in our ears.

"At length, we came to a place where the steps led through a narrow path which ran through the mountain. That was where we met the second troll. It was unlike the first one: the hair of its body was white, instead of black, and it didn't smell as badly as the first one."

"I've heard that troll's breath comes from their eating of flesh," Mjoll interrupted. "You know, they had trolls in Elsweyr who were smaller but just as mean-tempered as the ones in Skyrim and Cyrodiil..."

"May I please continue?"

"Sorry," she apologized. "Do go on."

"As I was saying..."

* * *

Eirik gripped the hilt of his great-sword tightly, eying the creature before him at the end of the pass, pawing the snow and roaring loudly. He was confident and keen-eyed, even in the cold winds that blasted his face. Slaying that dragon and absorbing its soul had given him a kind of bravado that made him feel as though there was nothing in Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, that could possibly be a match for him. With a powerful battle-cry in the ancient Nordic tongue, he charged forward, eager to take that troll's ugly, three-eyed head off its body.

_Wham!_ He ran into something heavy that sent him stumbling back, barely able to hold his feet.

"What the fuck, Lydia?" he asked.

"I've got this one," she said, drawing out sword and gripping her shield tightly.

"Didn't you see me going for it?" he scolded.

The troll roared at them, fully aware of the newcomers. Lydia charged forward. Eirik shouted for her to hold, but she kept on running. The troll suddenly ran at her and, with a swing of his long, loping hands, it swatted Lydia like a fly, sending her crashing against the stone cliff-side.

"Hey!" Eirik shouted. "You took her down, why don't you try taking _me_ down?"

The troll roared at Eirik, and he brandished his great-sword at the creature. It ran towards him on all fours, but Eirik wanted this to happen. As the creature was close, within at least striking distance, Eirik stepped aside, but gripped firm the hilt of his sword, which he held in the path of the beast. When the troll hit his sword, he felt such a force pulling on his arms, that it was as though he was held in the jaws of a dragon and his limbs were about to be torn off. The troll, meanwhile, was skidding in the snow and Eirik realized that his sword had not killed the beast in one blow. Instead he heard a ringing sound as though something had struck stone and he saw, lying in the snow, the broken hilt of his great-sword. The ancient weapon of a Nordic king had met its end on the slopes of the Throat of the World.

The troll charged at him again, its three eyes clearly aware that its enemy had been robbed of its weapon. Eirik saw a blur of red on the creature's snow white hairy coat, but had little time to ponder it. The beast was almost on top of him and he jumped aside, but too late. With a painful crunch, he was thrown against the stony wall of the pass. He cried out in pain, but his mouth was silenced as he fell face-first into the cold snow. He tried to push himself up when a crushing blow struck him from above and he was pushed back into the snow. Over and over, again and again, such blows from the troll were flayed down upon him, until he felt one with the ice and snow beneath his nose.

* * *

"By the gods! That sounds painful," Mjoll exclaimed.

"Aye, that it was." Eirik replied.

"How did you escape being torn to pieces by that frost troll?" she asked.

"I had the good fortune that Lydia had not been killed by that blow," Eirik said. "The strength of those troll-paws, one hit to the head and I would have none. As it was, she had survived the troll's first assault alive if not unscathed. Yet she had still the use of her wits and knew more about trolls than I did. Our torches had been doused by the wind, but she had her tinder box on hand and lit them again. It was quite a sight, seeing her brandishing two torches against the troll, one in each hand."

"That must have been a sight indeed!" Mjoll stated.

"Yes, it was," Eirik replied. "But it worked. Trolls hate fire and it caught quickly. Thus distracted, I pushed myself out of the snow and, taking Lydia's sword, managed to give it a fatal wound. But, of course, I was lacking a sword."

"How did you manage to acquire a new one?" Mjoll asked.

"Oengul War-Anvil, the blacksmith in Windhelm," said Eirik. "We went there after our meeting with the Graybeards."

"A fascinating story," Mjoll commented. "Perhaps we ourselves shall have some adventures on the mountain, eh?"

"We just might," Eirik said, casting his eyes up to the shadow of the Throat of the World, growing darker in the gathering gloom. "We just might."

* * *

When, at last, the two Nords arrived in Ivarstead, it was long past nightfall and they practically stumbled into the Vilemyr Inn. It certainly looked better than it did before, those living there had been able to repair the damage done by the invading Thalmor. Wilhelm, the barkeep and proprietor of the Vilemyr Inn, was none too happy to see them, remembering all too well what had happened last month. Yet he would not deny them room for the right coin, which they did pay. Of course, when Eirik told them that they would be going up the mountain, his demeanor changed.

"The road up to High Hrothgar is perilous indeed," he said. "It takes a good night's rest to have the strength to hazard the mountain, and even then, there's no guarantee of surviving the climb. I'll not turn away pilgrims, not if it means the difference between life and death."

They shared a room and a bed as well. Though, by this time, Mjoll did not need to remind Eirik to keep to himself. They had come to trust each other now and knew neither would move against the other in such a fashion. They slept well and woke with the sun. After a hearty breakfast, they packed their things up and left the inn, setting their eyes now for the snowy heights of High Hrothgar.

The path was long and arduous. They had clear skies almost continuously all the way up the mountain. Though the sound of wolf howling never left their ears, they passed on without incident. The worst that happened was that Mjoll constantly wandered off the path to read what was written in solid rock on the tablets that were scattered along the trail. On the way up, they paused for a rest, for the air was thinning out and they were both of them short of breath.

"So," Eirik gasped. "What think you of the top of the world?"

"It's quite poetic," Mjoll said.

"'Poetic?'" Eirik asked.

"Do you know," Mjoll asked. "That we could be walking the same steps that Talos himself walked when the Graybeards summoned him to this place? Or even earlier than that, the ancient heroes who are known in our songs and tales as the Tongues? Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt and Felldir the Old, the ones who defeated the World-Eater in the time before time. It lifts ones spirit to think that we are now walking the same steps as these great ones have walked before us, does it not?"

"Yes," Eirik said proudly.

They stood silent for several minutes, panting heavily in the thin, cold air. Nearing the end of the timber line, there were few to no trees this far up the mountain. No shelter from the wind and snow and nothing to hold onto should they perchance to slip and fall. Looking up, they could see the path up the mountain wound away some many furlongs around the bulk of the mountain, until they could see the stone towers of a great building in the ancient Nordic fashion. It reminded them something of the towers of Windhelm, yet they knew they were far away from Windhelm.

"Is that it?" Mjoll asked. "Those stone towers up ahead?"

"Aye," Eirik breathed. "That his High Hrothgar. We shall be there shortly, if the mountain does not kill us by then."

Once they had caught their breath and eaten some dried fruit that was in their pouches, they set off up the snowy, rocky path as it wounded around the mountain, first this way and then that. From here they could see much of the land gathered around them, even the high mountains north of Windhelm, where stood, like a child etched in stone standing upon the top of a hill miles away, a figure that froze Eirik's blood. It was the figure of a woman with hands held up as he had seen in a vision or a dream many weeks ago.

Nevertheless, they passed on up the mountain and soon arrived at the doors of the great castle. These were open and they passed into the dark, cold, stony halls of the temple of the Graybeards without resistance. Inside, there was a heavy draft through the stone corridors, and the only light and warmth were the torches that laid in their niches in the walls. Their footsteps echoed on the stone-steps and soon enough, several old men clad in plain gray robes with gray hoods and long gray beards approached them. They said nothing, but their piercing glances unnerved even Mjoll. At last they approached one who was taller than the others and his gray hood was pulled back, revealing his face. He had keen gray eyes for one so old and a sharp, pronounced nose which protruded from his graybeard, tied in a knot below his chin.

"Greetings, Arngeir," Eirik greeted, bowing to the old man.

"Well met again, Dragonborn," the old man replied. "May the sky guard you."

"I need your help," Eirik said. "I need to learn the Shout that was used to defeat Alduin."

At this, Arngeir's face became grave and his voice distrustful. "Where did you learn of that? Who have you been talking to?"

"It was recorded on Alduin's Wall," Eirik replied.

"The Blades," Arngeir sneered. "Of course. They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn you, Dragonborn, from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?"

"The Blades want to defeat Alduin, the World-Eater," Eirik stated. "Don't you?"

"What I want is irrelevant," Arngeir cleverly replied. "As you well know from Alduin's Wall, that Shout was used once before, was it not? And here we are again. Perhaps Alduin is not _meant_ to be defeated, huh? Have you not considered that? The Tongues did not stop the day of reckoning when they overthrew him in ancient times, they merely postponed it. If the world is meant to end, then so be it. Let it end and be reborn."

"That's hardly a good attitude!" Mjoll interjected.

"Who is this that speaks?" the old man asked. "Another pilgrim?"

"I am Mjoll the Lioness," she said.

The old man said nothing, but turned once again to Eirik. "You seem troubled, Dragonborn."

"Aren't you?" he asked. "We're talking about people, thousands of lives who will be destroyed by Alduin and you're telling me to sit by and _let_ it all happen?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm telling you," Arngeir replied. "Now leave me be and don't come back until you have found once more the path of wisdom."

While they were talking, Mjoll noticed a tall old man clad in gray approach Eirik and the old man. He turned his face towards the old man and spoke in a tongue which she had never heard. When he spoke, the mountain shook and Mjoll feared that an earthquake would send the temple tumbling off the side of the Throat of the World and crash down onto the plains below, taking them with it.

"Arngeir!" the second old man shouted. "_Rok los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul! Rok fen tinvaak Paarthurnax!"_

"Come," Eirik said, turning to Mjoll. "We've wasted our time here."

"Dragonborn, wait," Arngeir called to Eirik.

"What?" Eirik asked, turning around to the old man.

"Forgive me, I was...intemperate," the old man apologized. "I let my emotions on the matter of the Akaviri cloud my better judgment. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty." The second old man bowed silently in the direction of Eirik, then walked away without another word. "The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make."

"So...you _can_ teach me this Shout?" Eirik asked.

"No," Arngeir replied.

"Why not?"

"Because I do not know it," Arngeir replied. "None of the Graybeards know the words of power of the Dragonrend Thu'um. But that is well, for it has no place within the Way of the Voice."

"Why?" Eirik asked again. "What's so bad about this Dragonrend shout?"

"It was created," the Graybeard began. "By those who lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin's Dragon Cult. Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout. When one learns the ancient Thu'um, it is taken into the very being of he or she who learns it: in essence, _they_ become the Shout, as you have doubtless witnessed in your journeys across Skyrim. But in order to learn and use this particular Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself."

Eirik sighed, pondering the words he had just now heard. The age of the rule of the Dragons must have been evil indeed, for such as this to have happened. He still feared the daedric princes of Oblivion, and the memories of the dark world within the pages of the black book in the Temple of Miraak and the story that old Storn Crag-Strider had told him of Miraak and his tyranny as a priest of the Dragon Cult came to mind. If this powerful Nord would rather turn to the daedra than continue to serve the dragons, their tyranny must have been great, as was the hatred of the dragons by the Tongues who made this shout. It was a risk, but the only other alternative was to sit around and wait for the world to be devoured by Alduin.

"But wait," he said. "You told me that none of the Graybeards know this Shout. How then can I defeat Alduin?"

"Only the master of our order can answer that question," Arngeir replied. "_If_ he so chooses, that is."

"Who is this one, the master of your order?" Eirik asked.

"Our leader," Arngeir replied. "Whose mastery of the Way of the Voice surpasses that of all of us."

"Where is he?" Eirik asked. "Why have I not seen him here?"

"He lives in seclusion on the very peak of the mountain," Arngeir said. "He speaks to us only rarely and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege. But the road up the mountain is perilous, for there the winds blow so fiercely that none have ever ventured up thither and survived since the days before the defeat of Alduin. Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path, but..." He grumbled quietly.

"But what?"

"Follow me, Dragonborn," Arngeir said, as he turned about and started walking down one of the long, dark, stone corridors.

"Old father," Mjoll spoke up. "I've heard you refer to the Way of the Voice several times already. What is that?"

"That is the purpose of our meditation, my child," Arngeir began. "It was Jurgen Windcaller who learned the truth, that the gods disapproved of the vain use of the Thu'um for trivial pursuits such as war and wanton slaughter. He was powerful and his mastery of the Voice was unmatched, yet not all believed his new creed of peace. Some still sought to use this power for war, and seventeen of these Tongues challenged him. Heh! He swallowed their Shouts for three whole days until they could speak no more and collapsed at his feet, realizing the error of his ways."

"Is that why you won't use this power for the war?" she asked.

"Yes," Arngeir answered. "When Ulfric Stormcloak came to us, seeking this knowledge, we were reluctant for him to learn this power, for we sensed the dark stain the war had left on his heart and soul. Nevertheless, he was insistent and told us that he sought to use this power for the glory of the gods. We were sorely misled."

"Does that mean you don't support the rebellion?" Eirik asked. "You would turn a deaf ear against your own people in this war for the sake of your beliefs?"

"The Way of the Voice is not easy, Dragonborn," Arngeir stated. "Self-denial is something we all must endure, that is why Jurgen built this temple upon the highest mountain in Skyrim, that we may be detached from the vanities of the world and focus instead on the mastery of the Voice. Though we have not taken sides in this civil war and our door is open to any of the races of Tamriel who wish to learn the truth, we do consider Ulfric Stormcloak to be our greatest failing."

"In what way?" Eirik asked.

"In that we believed what he told us," Arngeir replied. "That he truly intended to use the Voice to honor Talos, rather than a weapon of war. Many lives have paid the cost of our lack of foresight."

"High King Torygg?"

"And others," he said cryptically, as he opened the doors which led to the courtyard of High Hrothgar.

Outside in the snow-clad courtyard, they could see the summit of the mountain, shrouded in clouds. The winds were so heavy even here that they blew their clothing and the hoods of the Graybeards. Arngeir led them to the center, where the other Graybeards had gathered in a circle at the farthest end of the courtyard, where stood a stone pavement clear of snow, with a small tower and a stone arch leading up to the summit of the mountain. None of them could see farther than that, for the winds about the mountain were so thick that they could see nothing. In the center was a fire that seemed too weak to keep out the rushing wind, yet it did not die down.

"The path to our master," Arngeir said. "Lies beyond this gate. I will show you how to open the way." He stood in front of the fire, then turned towards the stone arch. "_Lok...Vah Koor!_"

A sudden rush of wind blasted forth from Arngeir's lips and, to Eirik and Mjoll's surprise, the winds died down before them and they could see a path that wound around the summit of the mountain, disappearing as it bent around its side and became lost to view. There were no trees this far up the mountain.

"This Thu'um is called 'Clear Skies'," Arngeir said, turning to Eirik. "It combines the word '_Lok_', for sky..." He waved his hand over the pavement, and Eirik saw fiery letters in the Dragon tongue appear where the old man's hand had been. "...'_Vah_' for spring and '_Koor_' for summer. Used together, it will clear the skies of whatever fog or inclement weather that may hinder your path. This is your final gift from us, Dragonborn. Use it well."

"Thank you, Arngeir," Eirik replied.

"It should speed you on your way to the summit," the old man said. "But beware, the path is perilous and not to be embarked upon lightly. Keep moving, stay focused on your goal and you will reach the summit. Farewell, Dragonborn, and may you never leave the path of wisdom."

Eirik walked towards the stone arch, and behind him, seemingly forgotten during this moment, Mjoll followed after him. Beyond the arch, they came to a narrow pass where the girth of the summit hung directly over their heads. Despite the threatening appearance of this pass, they ran through without incident, but about halfway through it, Eirik halted.

"What's wrong?" Mjoll asked.

"Ugh!" he groaned. "The wind is fierce, it bites deep into my bones, colder than ever."

"What about what the old man showed you?" she suggested.

"Right," Eirik said, then stepped back before, breathing in first before his explosive exclamation, speaking the Shout. "_Lok...Vah Koor!_"

From his open mouth, a tidal wave of powerful wind burst forward, dispersing the winds in his path and showing the way forward. Eirik grunted in satisfaction as he walked forward.

"What makes you so happy?" Mjoll asked.

"This Shout doesn't drain me as much as the others do," he said. "I bet I could speak it in quicker succession and with fewer rests."

"That would be a good idea," Mjoll said, looking back. "For the winds have gathered behind us."

"We must keep pressing forward," Eirik said, turning his eyes to the path before him.

Down the path they went, which dipped downward, then turned back around and led over a rickety rope bridge. Here they were most careful in walking slowly across it, for it was most likely very old and if they fell here, there would be nothing to stop them from falling all the way down to the fields below: an instant death with no hope of escape therefrom. On the other side of the bridge, the winds picked up again.

"_Lok...Vah Koor!_" Eirik shouted.

The winds parted, but Eirik was suddenly frozen by something that felt like the lash of a whip. There was a hiss and the cold around them became even more unbearably cold.

"Ice wraiths!" Eirik groaned.

"I'll make short work of this," Mjoll said, drawing Grimsever.

"No," Eirik dismissed. "They are immune to the enchantment of your sword."

"Then what shall we do?" Mjoll asked.

Eirik pushed himself up onto his feet, his shivering fingers gripping the cold hard steel of the Bloodskal blade, born back from Solstheim on his back, as he drew it forth to battle. He swung at the cold, though he knew not where the wraith was hiding. There was a flash of red, a blast of energy arching forth and then a hiss like a serpent of ice and an icy carapace fell into the snow.

"Take the teeth, if any are intact," Eirik said. "I've got to clear the path ahead of us." He stepped over the puddle of slick ice that was forming as the wraith's carapace started to melt and looked into the biting winds before him. "_Lok...Vah Koor!_"

The winds parted, showing for them the path ahead. It wound up the southern face of the mountain and went steadily upwards. For a moment, Eirik paused in his walk and looked southwards. From here he could see over the Jerall Mountains and, in the distance, the far green country of Cyrodiil, the land of the Empire. Though he could not see from here the golden roofs of the Nordic town of Bruma, he knew it lay in that direction, and all the bad memories of that place. He turned instead and saw something lumbering down to meet them from out of the snow.

"Troll!" Eirik alerted Mjoll. The snowy beast swung its mighty paws at Eirik, who managed to jump aside, but lost his footing and felt a jolt run through his body as his feet slid downward, towards the Jerall Mountains below. Thankfully, he had not lost all of his wits, nor his skinning knife, and he dove it into the snow, which, up here, was so thick and icy that it kept him from falling all the way down. His sword lay forsaken on the snow before him, and if he could only reach it before that damned troll broke it or swatted it off towards Cyrodiil, he might be able to slay that thing. Then a freezing cold hand gripped tightly around his own.

"Come here, you," Mjoll said, pulling him up with all of her might.

"Watch out!" Eirik shouted as the troll ran at her from behind. It struck her a heavy blow on the head with its paw, knocking her face down into the snow. She did not move. With an angry grunt, Eirik pulled himself back onto the ledge and was getting onto his feet when he saw the troll turn towards him. The Shout of Unrelenting Force would definitely knock that snowy bastard off, perhaps even sending him flying through the sky, to break his troll bones on the horns of the Jerall Mountains. But Mjoll was so close at hand, and she was already in danger of falling or worse, he dared not risk it.

He grabbed the Bloodskal blade with both hands and swung it at the troll. The red flash of energy arced out of the blade, striking the troll in the chest and sending it smack against the side of the mountain. With a roar of fury, he leaped up and sent the blade down the troll's mouth. There was no need to check again, it was certainly dead now. Leaving the sword buried in the troll's throat, he ran to where Mjoll lay and seized her arm as her body was starting to slide off the side of the mountain. With his other hand, he seized her other arm and pulled her up the rest of the way.

"Mjoll!" he said to her. "Can you hear me? Gods above, say not that you've..." He placed his hands on her face, but they were so cold and numb that he could not feel anything: then again, her face was cold and numb as well. He slapped her face and, to his surprise, she exclaimed.

"Didn't your mother never teach you not to slap a woman?" Mjoll laughed. "Especially one who could kill you as easily as a mountain lioness?"

"Oh, thank the gods!" Eirik laughed uneasily. "For a moment there, I had thought the troll had done you in."

"No," she dismissed, pushing herself into a sitting position. "I'm still invincible, though that troll has a strong right arm. My head felt as though it had been bludgeoned by a war-hammer."

"Come, now," Eirik said, offering her his hand as they stood up. "I can feel the winds gathering around us again. We should get moving."

"Forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Your sword," Mjoll said, pointing to the troll carcass. Eirik chuckled as he removed the Bloodskal blade from the troll's body and cleaned off the black blood from its blade before turning towards the mountain.

Twice more Eirik had to clear the skies of the harsh winds, and on and on they went, as the air grew colder and thinner, until their steps were harsh and breathing was painful. Onward and upward they went, ever on the southern slopes of the mountain, going higher than they had ever climbed on any mountain in any of the lands. The path wound around towards the north and then they came to a place with two large arms of the mountain, through which the path went through. The arms looked like great standing stones, carved as those which dotted the landscape of Skyrim, yet these were of the craft of nature, not man.

Beyond this pass, they came to a plateau where the pinnacle of the mountain loomed on the southern end of the plateau. On the north-eastern side was a great structure, carved with images of the dragons and words in the ancient Nordic tongue. Up here the air was clear and they could see everything across all of Skyrim. They were high above the clouds, which floated below to obscure the view of all the land, but up here, it was like being one step away from the land of the gods.

Suddenly, there was a great roar and a dreadful sight appeared before them. A great dragon, clothed in golden scales, flew down from the western side of the mountain and landed on the plateau before them. Eirik drew the Bloodskal blade and behind him Mjoll brandished Grimsever. Nevertheless, they were both well out of breath and Eirik feared that any battle against anything this high up, to say nothing of a dragon, would end in death for himself and victory for this beast. Had this been a trick of the Graybeards? Had his allegiance with Esbern and the Blades led him to being eaten by a dragon on the Throat of the World?

"_Drem Yol Lok,_" the dragon said in a deep, booming voice at Eirik. "Greetings, _wunduniik._ I am Paarthurnax." His words were slow and measured and he often broke off, speaking in the Dragon tongue rather than the Common tongue. "Who are you? What brings you to my _strunmah_...my mountain?"

"I am seeking the master of the Graybeards," Eirik said.

"_Ah Bron, geh_," the dragon replied. "You have found whom you seek."

"I didn't expect you to be a dragon," Eirik replied.

"I am as my father Akatosh made me," Paarthurnax answered. "As are you..._Dovahkiin_. Tell me, why do you come here, _volaan?_ Why do you intrude on my meditation?"

Eirik quavered for a moment. He never expected to be standing in the presence of a dragon, to say nothing about speaking to one rather than fighting it. Then he remembered his purpose and his heart failed him. He would be asking this creature, who, though master of the Greybeards, was a dragon himself, for the power to destroy one of his own kind.

"I sense your _faas,__ Dovahkiin_," the dragon replied. "Your...fear. _Grik dukaan._ It is not befitting of a _Dovahkiin_. Speak your mind, _kendov_."

"I seek a great and powerful Thu'um," Eirik said. "The Dragonrend Shout. Can you teach me?"

"Hmm," grumbled Paarthurnax. "_Drem._ Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the _dov_. By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are _Dovahkiin!_" On its hind legs and the fore-arms of its wings, the dragon turned towards the wall and growled in its ancient tongue: "_Yol...Toor Shul!_" A stream of fire burst out of its mouth and struck the stones. So close were they that the heat warmed them up, melting the frost off their faces and hands. Too soon was it over and the fire died from the jaws of the dragon, who then turned its giant face, chin covered in long spikes and horny scales and plates, towards Eirik. "Approach the wall, _Dovahkiin_. Why do you intrude here if not for _tinvaak?_"

Eirik slowly walked towards the wall, noticing that the snow beneath his feet was not slushy or watery, it had not even blackened. The stories were true, then, of the ever-frost that clung to the top of the Throat of the World. His wavering steps brought him to the great wall, where he saw words burning in the ancient dragon tongue upon the wall: etched no doubt by the fiery breath of Paarthurnax.

"_Yol..._" Eirik breathed, and the mist that came out of his mouth was smoke, like the heat from a smoking furnace of a boiling cauldron. He felt warm inside, as it had happened time and time again when he read the words in the ancient tongue before. Yet now he felt even warmer, as though a fire had welled up within is soul that no cold could quench.

"A gift," Paarthurnax stated. Eirik walked over to the massive dragon. "Understand fire as the _dov_ do. Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as _Bron_, as a Nord, but as _Dovah!_"

Eirik stepped back, fearing what would happen if he let loose a torrent just as he had seen the dragon do upon, well, a dragon. He took in a deep breath of the thin cool air, and then:

"_Yol!_" he shouted.

Out of his open mouth came a burst of fire and heat, so great that the dragon before him, wreathed in flame was it was from his Thu'um, reminded him of the black dragon Alduin and the inferno of Helgen. Even then, he could still smell the acrid stench of burning flesh rising up in his nostrils.

"Ah, yes!" Paarthurnax replied, and Eirik was once again on the Throat of the World. The wind was heavy about him, but the blaze his Thu'um had created warmed him still. "_Sossedov los mul._ The dragon-blood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind. Hmm, this has been _prodah_, long since expected. But you, _Dovahkiin_, you would not come all this way for _tinvaak_ with an old_ dovah._ No, you seek your weapon against Alduin."

"The Greybeards didn't want me to come here at all," Eirik stated.

"Hmm, yes," the dragon mused. "They are very protective of me. _Bahlaan fahdonne._ But I do not know the Thu'um you seek. _Krosis._ It cannot be known to me. Your kind - _joorre_ - mortals, created it as a weapon against the _dov..._the dragons. Our _hadrimme_, our minds cannot even...comprehend its concepts."

"How can I learn it then?" Eirik asked.

"_Drem_, all in good time," Paarthurnax returned. "First, a question for you: why do you want to learn this Thu'um?"

"Alduin is called the World-Eater," Eirik said. "The stories say that his coming will herald the end of the world. Well, I rather like this world and don't want it to end."

"_Pruzah_," quoth the dragon. "As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Hmm, perhaps this world is simply the egg of the next _kalpa? Lein vokiin?_ Would you stop the next world from being born?"

Once more, Eirik was put to a stand-still. He had never for once thought of the world in such a manner. It bespoke of the way of the Skaal, that this world would run its course and the All-Maker would then reshape it into something new. Perhaps they had come closer to some measure of truth than he had first given them credit. But the cold bit through to his bones and over-thinking was making his head ache. This was the duty of a scholar, not a warrior.

"The next world will have to take care of itself," he replied.

"_Paaz,_" breathed Paarthurnax. "A fair answer. _Ro fus..._maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past its end. _Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis._ Those who try to hasten the end may delay it, while those who work to delay the end may bring it closer." The dragon rumbled. "But, you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. _Krosis._ Now I will answer your question. Hmm, do you know why I live here, at the peak of the _Monahven?_ What you name the Throat of the World?"

"Why?" Eirik asked.

"This was the very spot," Paarthurnax began. "Where Alduin was defeated by the ancient Tongues. _Vahrukt unslaad..._perhaps none but me remember how he was defeated."

"The Dragonrend shout, right?"

"Hmm, yes," replied the dragon. "And no. _Viik nuz ni korn._ Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to...defeat him. The _Bron_ of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. _Ok mulaag unslaad._ It was the _Kel_ they used to cast him adrift on the currents of Time."

"What is the _Kel_?" Eirik asked.

"I believe it is called in the language of the_ joorre_...the Elder Scroll."

* * *

**(AN: Because I do listen to reviews, I made this chapter a bit longer since having a cliff-hangar when they meet Paarthurnax would probably piss you off..._again!_ Lol, at least I have a new reviewer. Funny though, _Guts_, you say "how could anyone not like this story?" and then add "interjections are odd" and "there are bland moments" without giving a proper explanation. Lol, I kid, but it's because I'm glad to have another person reading this.)  
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**(How was...everything? My depiction of the mountain climb, the flashback action sequence? I don't remember it being this bad on my first, or even my second, attempt at _Skyrim_, but then my band-mate let me play his on the XBOX and guess what? Not only did I/his character, die several times at that same pass, the time he finally survived, Lydia died [and that wasn't even the first time, she had died on a previous attempt in which the DB died as well]. And they were level 8! Yes yes, I know this chapter is massively huge and I'm probably going to get raked over the coals for what looks like a cliff-hangar, but this chapter was getting too big as it was and I decided to cut it there at the big reveal of the titular word of the series rather than bore you with a eight, nine or possibly ten thousand word chapter! Lol, already, this chapter is the "Treebeard" of this story, which is appropriate, since I was envisioning Paarthurnax as a bad-ass, possibly evil, version of Treebeard with wings and a tail and scales.)**

**(Also, and I might do it the next time I come back here [hint hint at what might happen], but once when I was up on the top of High Hrothgar at night, I honestly waited until the sun rose over the Velothi Mountains just because I wanted to see how the game did a sunrise from the top of the world [while listening to "Hammerheart" by _Bathory_, just to make it a bit more epic]. Now, while I don't think I'll go into great detail for the first visit, that pretty much happened at night. It will be described more or less, but not in great flashbacks. There will be a few more, but I will try to keep the majority of the story in real-time. Oh, speaking of the Throat of the World, do you know just how big the Azura statue is? I flew there with a dragon and he was puny compared to it: a dragon was _puny_ to this massive statue! Now even though you probably can't see it from there in-game, I doubt not that something as big as, say, _The Motherland_ _Calls_ or the _Spring Temple Buddha_, can be seen from any high point in Skyrim, especially since it is on the top of a mountain!)**


	45. Reunion

**(AN: And now we continue the story from where we left off, hoping that it will be of good length and yet not too long. Also, you will see just what has been trailing them. One more thing, which I intentionally did for the last chapter and will in this chapter. I altered the dialogue between Eirik and Arngeir so that he would not mention Paarthurnax's name so that his reveal as a dragon would be more shocking, as it was when I first played _Skyrim_ years ago. Also, the whereabouts of the Scroll will be revealed by the most unlikely of persons, because...well, that would be telling, wouldn't it? Just read ahead.)  
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**(I don't know if I've said this yet, but Idolaf Battle-Born is a bastard all around. When you first come to Whiterun, he is complaining that the Grey-Manes have sided with the Stormcloaks. If you win the civil war as the Stormcloaks, he will complain that the Empire has forsaken Whiterun, letting it fall into the hands of "these stinking half-wits", or what other racial slur he has against HIS OWN PEOPLE, and then if you win the civil war as the Empire, he is STILL complaining! Not only that, but in "Missing in Action", we find out that he was childhood friends with Thorald Grey-Mane and was actively searching for him until the Empire sent him a message, which turned him from actively searching for his childhood friend into saying that the Grey-Manes are better off believing Thorald is dead. WHAT?! Even Messala in _Ben-Hur_ wasn't such a bastard!)  
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* * *

**Reunion**

Eirik paused once again, the only sound the slow, measured breath of Paarthurnax the dragon and the howling of the wind. Just the name of the Elder Scrolls chilled his bones, though he had heard not of them. He wondered if anyone he had encountered in his ways had heard of them: it seemed unlikely that Ulfric knew, for he knew not even why the dragons had attacked Skyrim in the first place. Old Storn might, but then again, it would probably seem to him as something detached and of little concern, especially to one who even saw the dragons as no greater threat than a blizzard. Crixus knew many things, especially of lore from beyond Skyrim, things which Eirik knew not. But an Elder Scroll?

"What is this Elder Scroll?" he asked at last.

"Hmm," Paarthurnax mused. "How to explain in your tongue? The _dov_ have words for such things that _joorre_ do not. It is an...artifact from outside time. It does not exist, and yet has always existed. _Rah wahlaan_. They are, hmm...fragments of creation. The _Kelle_ have often been used for prophecy. Yes, your prophecy comes from a _Kell._ But this is only a small part of their power. _Zofaas suleyk._"

"What exactly do you mean?" Eirik asked. "I-I remember you saying something about the Tongues casting Alduin adrift on the currents of Time. Are you saying they threw him...forward in time?"

"Not intentionally," the dragon replied. "Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. _Meyye._ I knew better. _Tiid bo amativ_: Time flows ever onward. One day, he would surface, which is why I have lived here. For thousands of _joorre_ years, I have waited. I knew where he would emerge, but not when."

"How does this help us?" Mjoll, who had been listening intently yet seemed to be side-lined by the conversation between Eirik Dragonborn and this very ancient dragon, suddenly asked.

"_Tiid krent, Dovahkiin,_" Paarthurnax said to Eirik. "Time was...shattered here, because what the ancient _Bron_ did to Alduin. Hmm, if you brought that _Kel_ back here to the _Tiid-Ahraan_, the Time-Wound...perhaps then."

"Perhaps what?" Eirik asked.

"The _Bron_ used it to break time," the dragon said. "Perhaps you could use it to cast yourself back to the other end of the break. You could learn the Dragonrend Thu'um from those who created it."

Eirik was silent again, as he tried to realize the weight of the words the dragon had said. Go back in time? It seemed impossible, and yet he had spoken of it as though it were no great task. But then again, Eirik had slain dragons. Maybe this task wouldn't be as difficult as he thought after all. Nevertheless, there was still one question the dragon had not answered.

"So, where could I find the _Kelle_, these...Elder Scrolls?" he asked.

"_Krosis_," grumbled Paarthurnax. "I know little of what has passed below in the long years I have lived here. You are likely better informed than I."

At this, Eirik was once again brought to a stand-still. He had never even heard of the Elder Scrolls, how could he possibly know more than this dragon? In fact, who could possibly know something that possibly no one alive knew about?

"Hmm," the dragon said in answer to Eirik's silence. "_Huzrah wah daar zul, Dovahkiin._ When all else fails, trust your instincts. Your blood will show you the way. _Hind__ Drem Lok, Hun se Keeizal, ahrk hio Brii Kendov Kulaas._"

Eirik then turned to Mjoll and the two of them made their way down the hill-side, leaving behind the Throat of the World and the great dragon Paarthurnax. As they went down, eager to reach more habitable lands ere the winds gathered about them, once they were outside of apparent earshot of the dragon, Mjoll spoke at last.

"Did you _see_ that?" she exclaimed. "It was a dragon, by Shor's bones! A dragon!"

"Aye, I saw that," Eirik said.

"So?" she asked. "You sound as though that's not that significant! We just spoke with a dragon and it didn't attack us!"

"I know," Eirik replied.

"Then why do you speak so solemnly?"

"Because," Eirik sighed. "I know not what to do next."

* * *

The climb down the slopes of the Throat of the World was quiet and uneventful. They did not stay long in the stone temple of High Hrothgar, for Arngeir had little to say about the Elder Scrolls.

"We have never concerned ourselves with the Scrolls," he said. "The gods themselves would rightly fear to tamper with such things."

He said nothing else, and seemed rather angry when Eirik spoke of the subject of the Elder Scrolls, and so they departed swiftly and were, by nightfall, at the bottom of the mountain. But instead of going back towards Ivarstead, they wound their way along the northern flank of the great mountain, making their way steadily westward, towards the familiar oceans of golden-brown grass that was the middle hold of Skyrim. Riften was no longer safe for them, so they turned their eyes towards the nearest place, the only 'safe' hold for them in all the land: Whiterun.

By the time they finally reached the gates of Whiterun, the night was old. Were it not for both moons being in the sky that night, they would have had no light for their path save for their torches. There had been, however, a few wolves who had attacked them, but they scattered once three of them or so had been slain. They came to the gates, expecting some kind of trouble, but the hold guards, while eager to keep watch for dragons, recognized Eirik as the Thane of Whiterun and opened the gates for him. Straight-way he went to Breezehome and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, and still there was nothing. He pounded his fist on the door a third time, and from behind he heard a voice cry out angrily at him.

"Just try and break this door down, you shit-brained son of a b*tch!"

"Lydia?" Eirik asked.

"What the f..." she began. "Arkay's balls! Just a second!"

The sound of locks being unlocked came from behind the door and moments later, it swung open, revealing a very weary-looking Lydia standing in the doorway, a candle in one hand and her sword drawn in the other.

"My thane," she greeted. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes, and we've come a long way this day," Eirik said.

"From where?" she returned.

"All the way from High Hrothgar," Eirik added.

"Oh, well, in that case, come on in," she stepped back, letting him in. "And who is this wi...oh, it's you."

"Huscarl," Mjoll greeted icily.

"Lioness," she replied with equal chill.

"What day is it?" Eirik asked.

"It's almost midnight," Lydia grumbled. "Which means it must be the fourteenth of Frostfall, Middas morning, I think. I'm too tired to think right now, I was dead asleep when you came pounding on the door."

"Why waste money on a bed at the inn when I have a perfectly good house?" he replied.

"Good, now go to sleep," Lydia said as she made her way up the stairs to her room. "Even a huscarl can't stand on her own feet without rest."

Without any other word, Eirik and Lydia made their way up the stairs and around to Eirik's bedroom. The bed was large enough for two and they were too weary and exhausted to argue much, so they literally fell onto the bed, shut their eyes and were asleep in seconds.

It was long after sunrise the next morning when they awoke. Eirik washed his face and hands in the water-bowl near his bed, then left began removing his gear. First went the heavy woolen cloak he had purchased in Raven Rock which he had worn in the Skaal village and on the heights of the Throat of the World. Then he removed very carefully an alchemist's satchel, containing a sack for herbs and ingredients and a few bottles as well. His purse he added to the pile of gear, then removed he his knife belt, with his skinning knife in its scabbard, and the large sack which he hung from his shoulders, which carried most of the things he acquired in his journeys. Once they were all laying on the floor, he placed on top of the pile the Bloodskal blade, making absolutely certain that he not make any sudden moves with it or risk tearing a hole through the wall of his house.

"Good morning," Mjoll spoke. Eirik turned about and saw the Lioness rising up from the bed. "You're up early."

"It's late, actually," Eirik said. "The sun's about two hours from noon, as Lydia told me."

"So," she groaned, rolling over on the bed. "What shall we do now?"

"I need to know what's been happening in Skyrim since we left," he replied.

"And where do you plan to start looking?"

"Dragonsreach, first," he said. "Farengar should probably have some news. If not there, then maybe Jorrvaskr. From what I've heard, the Companions are often sent out on hunting missions throughout the nine holds, maybe they've heard something. And, of course, there's always the Bannered Mare."

* * *

The two of them shared a light breakfast with Lydia downstairs before Eirik decided to head out and begin asking questions. Once outside, Mjoll asked if she could be let to walk the streets of Whiterun on her own, to which he acquiesced. Meanwhile, he made his way to the Wind District, where the hall of Jorrvaskr, built with a roof like an upturned drekkar, stood adjacent to the dying Gildergreen, a great tree left in the center of the Wind District which had long since withered and lost leaf and flower. Near at hand was a statue of mighty Talos, treading upon a serpent with sword in hand. Before the statue stood an old Nord who was preaching vehemently as Eirik came by.

"Talos the mighty! Talos the unerring! Talos the unassailable! To you we give praise!" the old man cried out. "We are but maggots, writhing in the filth of our own corruption! While you have ascended from the dung of mortality, and now walk among the stars! But you were once man! Aye! And as man, you said, 'Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you.' Aye, love. Love! Even as man, great Talos cherished us. For he saw in us, in each of us, the future of Skyrim! The future of Tamriel! And there it is, friends! The ugly truth! We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit! The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords! Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on earth! Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives? And what does the Empire do? Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing! The Imperial machine enforces the will of the Thalmor! Against its own people!"

But at that moment, before the old man could utter another word, a rotten head of cabbage struck him in the face.

"Tall talk," a Nordic voice sneered. "Must be hard with Talos' cock firmly planted between your lips, Heimskr."

"The truth of the hero of Skyrim must be told!" the old man retorted. "You cannot stop me, nor can those accursed Thalmor! Talos' hand has guided and protected me thus far to bring you this message! Far have you fallen, Idolaf Battle-Born, from the traditions of your fathers, your ancestors, your blood!"

"I am a loyal subject of the Empire," Idolaf replied. "And a true son of Skyrim."

"Blasphemy!" Heimskr returned. "To even call yourself a true son of Skyrim and yet deny the truth of our greatest hero, the man who ascended to godhood, is an insult! It is an insult to our people, it is an insult to our traditions, it is a very insult to our heritage!"

"Keep on barking, dog!" Idolaf sneered. "Give me an excuse to kill you."

"I cannot be killed, not yet!" Heimskr replied. "Talos' spirit has guided me through many trials and tortures, I will survive whatever you heathens can throw at me."

"Talos' spirit," Idolaf sneered. "You mean the septims you've been paying the guards to let you out of prison each time you've been caught?"

"Talos works in mysterious ways," the old man said.

"Oblivion take you, raving coxcomb!" Idolaf shouted, then turned his way. But he saw Eirik standing there, listening to the exchange and approached him, a threatening finger jabbing into Eirik's face. "Now you listen to my words, you fucking ape. Balgruuf can talk of neutrality all he wants, but we Battle-Borns know the truth. This land already belongs to the Empire and it won't be long before they come for rabble-rousers and barbarians like old Heimskr and you! So you just watch your back!"

"Get out of my face," Eirik returned.

"Or what?" Idolaf challenged. "You're gonna cry to your false god to strike me down?" Then, to add insult to injury, he spat in Eirik's face and walked off. As he was going, Eirik followed after him, fists clenched.

"Hey, watch it, kinsman," one of the guards said. "There'll be no violence in the city, Jarl's orders."

Eirik's fists relaxed as he saw Idolaf walk down the stairs that lead to the Plains District. He then saw the Battle-Born speak to a woman with olive skin at one of the merchant stands. They exchanged some words, then Idolaf knocked something over and went on his way. The woman looked up the stairs, then whispered to a young girl at her side, then picked up the skirts of her dress and walked up towards Eirik.

"I see he's been harassing you too," she said.

"Who?" Eirik asked.

"Idolaf Battle-Born," she said, looking after the straw-haired Imperial-sympathizer. "Stinking Nord, thinks he's better than the rest of them because he sympathizes with the Empire. Drunk, also, like the rest of them. Could smell it on his breath and on his beard."

"You don't think too highly of Nords," Eirik said.

"Of course not," she replied. "All they do is kill, drink and fuck. And harass me, asking for my hand, pleading, begging, threatening. I don't have to take this from them, I'm Cyrodilian, dammit! I have a right to do as I please and marry whom I wish, or not marry if I so desire. All that matters is my daughter, Mila Valentia." She looked back at the stand and waved to the young girl.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," she dismissed. "I should get back to work. Just don't take what that bastard said to you to heart, okay? It's not him, they're all like it."

"All like what?" Eirik asked. "You mean all us Nords are like him?"

The woman turned about, a look of mistrust on her face as she examined Eirik. He realized that she was not very tall, about as tall as Lydia, and of the same build, save that her hips were wider. But she certainly looked Cyrodilic, with the dark hair and darker shade of skin than Nordic women.

"Just keep your eyes on the ground and your hands to yourself," she replied. "And we won't have a problem."

Eirik went on his way into the Plains Quarter, then turned left in the market-square and up to the Bannered Mare. Once inside, a voice called out to him from the bar. He crossed over just as the bard, Mikael, was starting to strum his lyre for "Ragnar the Red."

"Hulda, right?" Eirik asked.

"Aye," the Nord bartender replied. "I've heard you're a woodsman. We need more firewood, it's out back. I'll pay you ten septims a log."

"Uh, thank you," Eirik said. "Wait, who told you I'm a woodsman?"

"That one in the corner," she said, pointing to the corner of the bar, where a figure cloaked in the garb of a ranger sat huddled against the wall. "Had a few drinks with Idolaf before he left, paid for both of them, then said something about someone coming in who looked just like you. 'Strange kind of person,' he said. 'A tall Nord with long brown hair and a small beard uncurled and un-braided.' Hmm, pretty much described you to a tee."

"'He?'" Eirik asked. "Not she?"

"Yes, it was a man," Hulda replied.

Eirik nodded and told Hulda that he would see to the lumber as soon as he had finished talking with this stranger. He crossed the hall, as a group of the Whiterun guard, and their captain Caius, joined in singing the song at "...And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade." At the far end, he sat down at the table next to the figure, whose garb, cloak and hood were all in black. As soon as he sat down, a tankard was pushed over to him.

"How do I know this has not been poisoned?" Eirik asked.

"While I seriously considered that," a familiar voice replied. "Keeping you alive is much more...fun." The figure leaned forward and pushed back his hood, only so much that his face was revealed. "You know, you're a hard man to follow."

"Crixus," Eirik sighed. "I thought we had left you behind in Solstheim."

"Hardly," the Cyrodilian sneered. "I was...busy with some business in Raven Rock when I heard the old Dunmer hag going on about you and the daedra and going back to Skyrim, Dawnguard or whatever. So I stowed away on the Northern Maiden and arrived in Skyrim about the same time as you did."

"You must have _loved_ arriving in Windhelm," Eirik rolled his eyes.

"It was certainly fun," Crixus stated with a chuckle. "Especially seeing how your Ulfric Stormcloak keeps the Dunmer in the slums of Windhelm. Fuck, at least they have _some_place to live. The Argonians don't have anywhere, they just live on the docks." He then raised his own tankard and drank from it.

"Since when have you cared about anyone but yourself?" Eirik asked.

"Just shut the fuck up and listen to me," Cirxus replied. "I went by foot, since stowing away in the carriage would have been too obvious. Saw what you did to those Thalmor. Great way of telling the Dominion 'Here I am, come fuck with me.'"

"I protect the people of Skyrim as I see fit," Eirik replied.

"Uh-huh, yeah, what-the-fuck-ever," Crixus rolled his eyes. "Any way, _I_ came in to Riften through the front door."

"Aha," Eirik replied. "Riften. You know, I remember someone saying something about things happening Riften right about the time when we first left Skyrim."

"Yeah?" Crixus asked, drawing out a dagger. "You wanna make something of it? This is war, just like I told you when we first met. We can't be seen together by our superiors on either side. Even so, I still have my obligations to fulfill and I fulfilled them."

"Riften is a thousand times worse now than when it was before," Eirik said.

"Been listening to the Lioness, haven't you?" Crixus laughed.

"You think extorting the people in Riften is right?" Eirik asked.

"Oh, by the Eight!"

"They're just simple folk, trying to make an honest living for themselves! How can you justify putting them under Maven Black-Briar's tyranny?"

"Easy," Crixus said. "If it wasn't her, it would be someone else, someone worse than her, like that scumbag Ulfric Stormcloak or your precious Tiber-fucking-Septim."

"They never performed dishonorable acts, you bastard," Eirik replied.

"No," Crixus sneered triumphantly. "Ulfric just murdered women and children in the Reach and Talos stabbed Cuhlecain in the back and burned his house down about his ears, then cut his own throat to make it look like an assassination attempt."

"Lies, all of it!" Eirik retorted.

"Oh really?" Crixus smiled. He placed a book on the table. Its cover read _The Bear of Markarth_. "Read that and you'll see the truth about your precious Ulfric Stormcloak. _If_ you can read, that is."

"I can read," Eirik sneered as he picked up the book and opened it. "'_The Bear of Markarth: the Crimes of Ulfric Stormcloak_ by Arrianus Arius. Ha! Do you expect me to believe anything written by an Imperial?"

"I wouldn't expect you to be capable of reading at all," Crixus laughed. "Besides, I'd love to see what your precious Nords would say in his defense. Oh wait, that's right, there won't be any such books written in his defense because Nords can't read or write, can they?"

"Just like old times," Eirik sighed in frustration.

"Yeah, just about," Crixus replied, then a smile crept across his face. "Still, as I was saying, the people of Riften should be glad Maven's in charge. At least she won't lie about what she does, or pretend to care when she doesn't. And you should be thanking me."

"Ha! Thank you? Whatever for?"

"Who do you think asked that Battle-Born son of a b*tch to have a drink?" Crixus asked. "He was only happy to share a drink with a proud defender of the glory of the Empire, and once his tongue was well loosened by the ale, I got him to talk."

"And just what did he tell you?" Eirik asked. "And more importantly, why are you telling me? We're supposed to be enemies."

"Yeah, that's right," Crixus said. "But unlike you, I can adapt. Now, what would you like to know?"

Eirik pondered this for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully, before at last speaking. "How much _can_ you tell me?"

"Oh, you mean like where the Legion troops are moving?" Crixus asked. "Who are commanding each cohort? What kind of weapons they have? How many of them and what their battle plans are?" He snickered. "That _would_ be telling, wouldn't it? But there is something I can say, something that is impossible to subvert. Riften is ours, now we have swift access to Windhelm and soon the war will be over. Now is there anything else?"

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"There's nothing you can do to stop it," Crixus replied. "The borders are closed from the marshal law, and even you Nords won't hazard the deathly cold of the winter months in the high mountains. But once the weather subsides next year in the spring, it will be too late." He drank from his tankard again. "Now, is there anything else you want to know or can we say farewell?"

"There is one thing," Eirik conceded at last. "Have you heard of something called..."

"Yes?"

"An Elder Scroll."

Crixus became silent, leaning back in his chair and stroking his own short beard. In the background, Eirik heard the blasphemous words "But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean, of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams" from the song Age of Aggression, and felt his own blood boil. Skyrim was not part of Cyrodiil, and whose dreams of the people of Cyrodiil were being scourged and sullied by the rebellion? That song belonged to the _true_ children of Skyrim, not to these Imperial pretenders. His thoughts on the matter, however, were short-lived, as Crixus finally spoke.

"I've heard a few stories," he said at last. "There's a legend that the famed Hero of Kvatch stole it from the Elder Council Chambers in the White-Gold Tower in the Imperial City. But that was centuries ago, and few believe that story, save for the servants of Nocturnal."

"What do you think?" Eirik asked.

"I think it's bullshit," he replied. "Not to be trusted any more than the Eight."

"Where could I find information about one?" Eirik asked again.

At this, Crixus laughed. "Ha! You're asking me, an outsider, something you yourself could find out?Dagon's razor, you _are_ dense!"

"Just cut the racial slurs and tell me what you're getting on," Eirik sighed.

"Where would _you_ go to seek for information about rare and potentially dangerous magical artifacts?" Crixus asked. Eirik mused on Crixus' question for a moment, then suddenly it dawned upon him. Even more, the realization made him feel incredibly foolish, for it was something he himself had known and yet hadn't thought of at the first.

"Winterhold," he conceded at last. "The Mage's College in Winterhold."

"Exactly," Crixus replied. "By the way, if you're ever there, you should look up an...associate of mine, another Cyrodilian. Smart fellow, an apprentice sorcerer. I sent him there to busy himself with showing the mages of Winterhold a thing or two."

While they were speaking, the sound of iron boots coming to a halt near their table was heard. Eirik took a drink from his tankard and looked at the newcomer. With a smile, he put his tankard back down on the table and smiled.

"You seem to have been busy," Mjoll said. "Go down to the Bannered Mare for a drink, I see."

"No, actually," Eirik chuckled. "I was talking to..." He turned to Crixus, but where the Cyrodilic tracker-thief had once been, there was now nothing. He looked about, both around and towards the ceiling, but he could catch no sign of Crixus.

"With whom?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," he replied. "How about you?"

"I've been looking around as well," she said. "It seems that there's been a lot of Imperial activity in this hold in particular. We picked a bad place to come to, you know."

"I know _now_," he stated. "So, what do you expect we should do?"

"Well," Mjoll began. "There's not really any openings for anyone to set up a shop or two in Whiterun, so I was thinking that maybe we could ask the Companions for help? It would do well to keep our skill in battle sharp and to fight with such renowned warriors. What do you think?"

Eirik finished his tankard, then stood up. "I think you're right."

While they were leaving, Hulda approached them and told Eirik that his drink had not been paid for by Crixus. With a sigh, he deposited ten septims from his pocket and turned to leave when he bumped into someone in the garb of the hold guard. He was sitting at one of the tables with some others in guard uniforms and Eirik had bumped into his knee.

"Oh, Arkay's balls!" Caius exclaimed. "Watch yourself, Nord!"

"My apologies," Eirik returned.

"Are you alright?" Mjoll asked.

"Yes," Caius replied. "It's just an old wound. Something from my days before commanding the Whiterun hold guards."

"What were you then?" Mjoll asked.

"I used to be an adventurer like you," Caius said. "Then I took an arrow in the knee."

* * *

**(AN: Yes, I _had_ to end this chapter with that.)**

**(Crixus did a little bit of help in his own way. Strange, I thought I was actually improving him, but I guess not. I chose to make it be _him_ who suggested Winterhold rather than Arngeir because, from what I had just seen in "The Throat of the World", it seems rather likely that he would withhold information, especially if he feared that Eirik might use it for ill. Also, considering that he referred to the mages' college as "blasphemous", it didn't occur to me that he would be keen on revealing that. Hell, he had to be coerced by his fellow Greybeards into revealing the truth about Paarthurnax.)**

**(Yay! This story now not only has the most words of all my stories, but the most chapters of all my stories! Yay for breaking my own records! [-insert "i love reviews, please leave them" here-])**


	46. Companions

**(AN: I'm so glad for reviews. And so deliciously objective! I felt that I did need to adhere somewhat to the in-game dialogue, because so far I've been making it up as I go along, and I felt that I needed to get back to the actual lore. I've actually caught that, though, my need for description. So I'll definitely try to make that work. Lastly, you know that the College won't let you enter and ask about the Elder Scrolls unless you start the mission [or so it was in my case], which means we will be going there, and showcasing one of the oddest encounters I've ever encountered. As for Mjoll up there, well, she's kind of with Eirik, I didn't feel right about just leaving her behind. I already feel like she needs to be a stronger/more important character because Lydia is looking to upstage her shortly. No, I will NOT be doing the Thieves Guild quest in this story!)**

**(-sigh- I'll try to do a bit of description and such, but yes, I like the reviews I'm getting. Interesting story, though, when I was first playing _Skyrim_, I had several saves, one - the only one that survives to this day - has me married to Mjoll. The other, which fulfilled the Companions quest-line, had me attempt to marry said beautiful huntress, but the PS3 sometimes glitches when it comes to marriage. Seriously, I was in the church all of the previous day and all of the day afterwards and I failed the quest 'attend your own marriage.')**

* * *

**Companions**

It was late on the evening of Middas, the fourteenth of Frostfall in Breezehome. Lydia was busy making food over the fire, while Mjoll was sharpening her sword and Eirik sat in one of the chairs, reading one of the books on his bookshelf. This particular one was the second volume of the _Biography of Barenziah_. Nearby, on top of a pile of books he had taken down from the shelf, was _The Bear of Markarth_, though he doubted that he would read it.

"So," Eirik spoke up. "What's for dinner?"

"Apple cabbage stew," Lydia said. "Some bread from the market, and something special."

"What would that be?" Eirik asked.

"Why don't you just wait and find out?" Lydia replied with a sly smirk.

"You know, you're very disrespectful for a huscarl," Mjoll stated.

"I didn't know my behavior was subject to your scrutiny, Lioness," she stated. "Still, I can say what I please."

"But you shouldn't let her talk like that!" Mjoll said, turning to Eirik.

"It's alright," he assured. "I've given her punishment for deserting me while on duty."

"She deserted you?" Mjoll exclaimed.

"We were separated at night!" Lydia exclaimed. "Shor's balls, you won't let me live that down, will you?"

"Only until you've learned your lesson." Eirik said.

"What lesson? I'm never lost and we _did_ find each other, didn't we? Please, just let me get back out there! I'm dying to be doing some serious fighting at your side!"

"I will think about it," Eirik sighed. "Have you heard anything else while we were away?"

"I thought that's what you went running around the Wind District to find," Lydia stated.

"I meant anything else," he replied.

"The Bard's College in Solitude is looking for new trainees," Lydia began. "There's been a lot more Imperial activity in the hold, which is strange because we're supposed to be neutral. I also heard of a vampire attack in Hjaalmarch. They were looking for someone called Dawnguard, but the guards held them off until the sun rose. They chose a bad time to attack, and the hold guards in Morthal fought long and hard against them until the morning came." She paused and brought the wooden ladle to her lips.

"Well, I guess this means the food's done," she said.

At the far back room of Breezehome was a table, set against the wall on the ground floor with the shelves of the larder on both sides. Eirik and Mjoll sat down first as Lydia poured the warm soup into blue-white ceramic bowls which she placed before them. The bread loaf she placed before them, then added the 'something special.' Three small bowls were added, containing a yellowish substance that was soft and crumbled in their fingers.

"It's from the Companion's latest hunt," Lydia said. "Mammoth cheese is some of the rarest in Skyrim and the most delicious. Almost impossible to get any without having to go through a giant tooth and nail."

In addition to the cheese, there were also some cuts of mammoth steak, which the Companions were only willing to sell to the shopkeepers to use to whatever end they so desired. Though, Lydia reminded them, that the Companions had, of course, taken goodly portion of the kill for themselves and the rest they gave to the people. While it was not horrible, it was highly priced considering the rarity of the goods she had bought. After a short prayer to Mara, led by Mjoll, they dove into their meals, with Lydia serving herself lastly. As they were well into their soup, dipping the bread in it and the mammoth cheese, Lydia opened the tab on one of the mead barrels and filled three tankards. Of course, she would drink one throughout the rest of the evening, and the others were for Eirik and Mjoll.

"Here is the last thing I promised," Lydia said. "Rather costly, too, considering it's become a recent market for thieves." She brought forth a basket with something inside wrapped in a cloth. Upon opening it up, they found four pastries covered in sweet icing.

"Sweet-rolls?" Eirik asked. "Lydia, you're a god-send, have I told you that?"

"You should tell me more often," she teased. "I feel like your slave sometimes."

"Don't let it go to your head," Mjoll added.

"Say," Lydia said, taking up one of the sweet-rolls from the basket. "This reminds me of a riddle I was told when I was young. Well, not really a riddle, more of a story, but it's one where you decide how to end it and it shows what kind of person you are."

"Let's hear it," Eirik said.

"While in town," Lydia began, brandishing the sweet-roll. "The baker gives you a sweet-roll. Delighted, you take it into an alley to enjoy it, only to be intercepted by a gang of thugs. The leader demands the sweet-roll or he and his thugs will beat the shit out of you and take it any way. What do you do?"

"Kill the thieves one by one, without mercy, and then enjoy the sweet-roll," Mjoll replied. "Damn thieves are always taking whatever they want, like they're entitled to everything they didn't work their asses to earn."

"Mmm, certainly seems like something you'd say," Lydia stated. "Eirik told me how much you love a good fight."

"Of course," Mjoll said. "I long to test my skill in battle against real opponents. For certainly, a true warrior seeks for a challenge, does she not?"

"Hmm," Lydia rolled her eyes. "What about you, my thane?"

"What about me?"

"What would you do in that situation?"

"With the sweet-roll?" he asked. "Well, I threaten to call the guards on them. If that works, good. If not, then I kill enough of them to send them running. If that doesn't work, I'll kill all of them."

"You certainly took your time with that," Lydia said. "But still, you seem to have the same kind of answer that Mjoll said. Both of you are obviously well-suited for each other. You like killing thieves."

"To make Skyrim a better place," Mjoll added.

"And what about you?" Eirik queried. "You put the question to us, it's only fitting that you answer it as well. What would _you_ do in that position?"

"Draw my sword," Lydia replied without hesitation. "Thieves are cowards, they won't stand long if you show them a little force. Doesn't have to be killing, just show them that you mean business, and they'll go running."

They spoke on for a few hours more, about this and that, until they were both well tired and made their way to their beds. While Mjoll was going first, Lydia called Eirik aside for a few words between the two of them.

"So?" she asked. "Have I suffered enough? Can I come with you on your adventures?"

"I'm afraid there won't be any adventures right now," Eirik stated. "With the Imperial activity in the hold, the safest place to be right now is within the walls of Whiterun. I've decided to keep my fighting skills honed by seeing if I can join the Companions."

"A nobler charge none could ask for," Lydia said. "You know how the Companions got their name?"

"Not now, I'm weary," he sighed. "I have to wake up early tomorrow and chop wood for the Bannered Mare before making my way to Jorrvaskr. If something comes up..."

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'll let you know," Eirik replied. "Now get to bed, huscarl."

"As you wish, my thane," she stated cheekily.

* * *

The next morning found Eirik out of doors in the early hours just before dawn, out behind the Bannered Mare, hacking logs in half with an ax. The hours passed slowly as Eirik did as he had done since he was young. It felt good, taking his frustration out on something. Though he wished that it were Thalmor necks rather than wood he were chopping: at least _that_ would mean something. So much for the White-Gold Concordant keeping the Aldmeri Dominion out of Skyrim when it gave their agents free reign to terrorize the people of Skyrim however they wished. Ever since encountering the Thalmor justicars taking the Nordic family away in the wilds, he felt a renewed sense of purpose, he knew what he had to do now.

And yet he could not shake the feeling of guilt, that every noble deed he was doing was somehow tainted. It was as though even his best deeds were nothing in the great scheme of things. The words of Paarthurnax came to mind about how the actions of one to postpone the end might hasten it. What if his actions in the war against the Empire were in fact bringing victory for the Empire and the Dominion closer? True, he was raised to never doubt what he held true in his heart, and yet, being exposed to the world outside of Skyrim and to all of this ancient knowledge - from an age before Jagar Tharn usurped the Emperor's throne, or even before Tiber Septim - made him doubt everything he had believed in for as long as he could remember. Was he doing the right thing? Did his doubts mean that his choices were not right? Was there really _any_ purpose in his life as the Dragonborn, if the end would come whether he found a way to kill Alduin with these Elder Scrolls or not?

So it was with a heavy heart that he passed into the great hall of Jorrvaskr, through the large doors and into the hull of the up-turned drekkar. Inside, many warriors were gathered around a Nord woman and a red-haired Dunmer man wrestling. Cheers were being shouted as the fight went on, loud chants filling the air. Eirik's mind was distracted from what he had thought before into the battle, for, as a rule, Nords loved the thrill of combat. The others seemed to not take notice of Eirik at first, so engrossed were they in the combat. At last, the Nord woman brought the Dunmer to the ground and held him under her body for nine counts before she was declared the winner. There was much rejoicing. As most of them departed to the great table that sat in the center of the hall around a great fire-pit, an old Nord man approached Eirik.

"Well met, kinsman," he greeted. "I am Vignar Grey-Mane. Are you here to join the Companions?"

"Yes, I am," Eirik said.

"Well, you should talk to Kodlak Whitemane, then," the old man said. "He can be found downstairs in the living quarter." Eirik began to walk away, but old Vignar placed his hand on Eirik's shoulder. "I would caution you from venturing any farther if you are not serious about this decision."

"What do you mean?"

"The history of our people, my son!" Vignar began. "When our ancestors first came to this land, they were slaughtered by the treacherous Snow Elves in the infamous Night of Tears. Ysgramor and his two sons were the only survivors of that great genocide. They returned to Atmora, vengeance burning in their hearts, and came back to Skyrim at the head of an army of five hundred. The warriors of this hall call themselves the Companions in honor of Ysgramor's valiant Five Hundred Companions. Behold! We decorate our banners with Wuuthrad, the Elf-Grinder, the very ax which Ysgramor himself wielded as he avenged the fallen in that great war!"

Eirik looked about the hall and saw, streaming from the rafters and hanging on the walls, were several red banners embroidered with the likeness of a double-headed ax, whose ax-head between the two blades was shaped in the likeness of an elf's face screaming in terror.

"When they made landfall and reclaimed the ancient city of Saarthal," Vignar returned. "The Companions elected each a captain, and sent them forth to seek their own fortunes in this new land. Jeek Ainssonur and his men south and east, down the White River, when they came to this place and beheld the Skyforge. They used the timbers of their ship to build this hall and its name they gave it: Jorrvaskr. You stand in the presence of the greatest of your ancestors, son. For here, in the halls of Jorrvaskr, you are as close to them as you can be in this life. To walk through this hall is to say 'I am a warrior and will die as I have lived: in glorious battle!' Are you prepared to live up to that?"

Eirik said nothing at first, thinking instead of the great honor that he now had for merely standing here, under the timbers of Jorrvaskr. Before it had only been a hall whose roof had been a ship. Now it was something much greater: this, to him, was an heirloom of his people from the time before Talos, a permanent reminder of their indomitable will and unending endurance before all the odds that could be mustered before them.

"Only the gods know for sure," he said at last. "All I can do is try."

"As good an answer as any, eh?" Vignar laughed. "Talos guide you, kinsman."

Eirik left old Vignar and made his way around the hall, trying to look inconspicuous as he looked for the stairs. At the southern end of the hall, Eirik found the stairs leading to the lower level, where the walls were all of stone. Through the doors he went and into the cold, stony hallway, lit by candles on the wooden tables and goat-horns hanging from the walls. The sounds of the festivities above echoed as though his head were inside of a drum and they were the hand upon which it beat. Down the hall he went, through many arches of stone. At last he came to the farthest end of the hall and was about to push open the doors when something ran into him.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Watch your step!"

Before he could make a sound, he was thrown up against the wall by strong arms and a dagger thrust against his neck. He was now face-to-face with a tall Nord woman with flaming red hair, piercing green eyes and a streak of green war-paint across her face. She sniffed at him with scrutiny..

"New blood, eh?" she asked. "If you plan on staying with the Companions, there's something you should learn first: there's no place for the proud and self-entitled in Jorrvaskr."

"Peace, Aela!" a voice spoke up. Two Nords had passed out of the door, one younger, the other older. The younger one had dark hair and black war-paint over his eyes, the shadow of a beard's stubble about his face and was dressed in strong steel armor. The other was clad in the same kind of armor and, in spite of his age, looked as though he belonged in armor more than in a bed or in the monastery of High Hrothgar. Long was his white hair on head and long was his gray-white beard.

"Brother, Harbinger," the red-haired woman Aela said, turning to the newcomers and saluting them with a fist pounded above her breasts. It was only then that Eirik noticed that her armor consisted of little more than a leather vest, topped with iron pauldrons, and skirt, clad with a fauld of steel and an outer-skirt of iron links. Her arms were wrapped in tight-fitting warm arm-bands and gauntlets were upon her wrists. But it was the legs that were standing out, unclad and uncovered all the way down to her boots.

"I was merely instructing this new blood about our ways," Aela stated.

"Be on about your business, shield-sister," the one she called 'brother' said. "We'll deal with this new blood."

"Yes, shield-brother," she saluted, then walked away down the stone hallway. As Eirik watched her depart, she turned and noticed him watching her. At this she gave a rude gesture, then turned and continued on her way.

"So, a stranger comes to our hall," the old man asked in a gruff voice, turning to Eirik. "And seeking to be one of us, I hear? Is this so?"

"Yes, sir." Eirik replied.

"I see," the old man grumbled. He waved Eirik forward. "Come closer, lad. Let me have a look at you. My eyes aren't as good as they once were."

"Don't listen to him," the younger man said. "He can still hit a running deer with an arrow at fifty paces."

"In my youth, Vilkas, it was a hundred paces!" the old man replied. "But enough of this. You, kinsman, let me see you." Eirik stood as the old Nord examined him over, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Hmm, yes. Perhaps a certain strength of spirit."

"Master Whitemane," young Vilkas interjected. "You're not truly considering accepting _him_?"

"I am nobody's 'master'!" the old man retorted. "Besides, the last time I checked, we still had some empty beds for those with a warrior's fire burning in their hearts."

"My apologies," Vilkas apologized. "Nevertheless, I don't think this is the time. No one has even heard of this man!"

"Nevertheless," old Whitemane said. "You know our history and the history of this great hall Jorrvaskr. Sometimes the renowned come to us and sometimes men and women come to us seeking their own renown. Either way, it makes no difference: all that matters are their hearts."

"And their sword-arm," Vilkas added with a chuckle.

"Of course," the old man stated. He then turned to Eirik. "How are you in battle?"

"Fair enough," Eirik replied, and it was an honest answer. All too many times, he remembered, battles had gone ill and he had to rely on either sheer luck or the skill of his fellows. Perhaps time with the Companions would make him a better warrior? Perhaps then he would not doubt his skill in battle, and be sure of something in this ever-changing world of his?

"We will see," the old man said, turning then to Vilkas. "Take this man out to the yard and see what he can do."

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- I beat the game. No, really, I did. First it was either _Dragonborn_ or _Dawnguard_, I forgot which one I did first, and then, in the early morning hours, I beat the game. I hear Malukah's version of "Tale of Tongues" going through my head and life now has no more meaning. What else can I do but start again from the bottom? [lol])**

**(At least give me credit for trying to make, as so many of my reviewers have labeled it, a bad quest-line sound at least kind of interesting on paper. Here's a question, though. My brother got to work on a back-story for Crixus, and he suggested I do an Elder Scrolls 4.5 story - sort of a prequel to the events of _Skyrim_ with Crixus as our main character. Would any of you read that if I did? I'm really thinking about doing it, sort of to fall back on when my other creative wells run dry [which has been happening all too frequently, it seems.])**

**(Yes, I know what you're going to say - full on orgy with Lydia, Aela and Mjoll! As tempting as that sounds, this fic is story-first. If I wanted to write an epic sex-fest, I would do so [and there would be more than just those three]. As this is based on the canon of the game [more or less], she's going steady with Skjor [yeah, people think Aerin and Mjoll are together but not Aela and Skjor?])**


	47. The Parting of the Ways

**(AN: Yay, reviews! Nobody said anything about Vignar Grey-Mane? When I won the civil war, I was depressed that he had so little lore, so I tried to give him a little bit of page-time. Lastly, yes, I know I spent very little time with the Companions quest-line, but I promise I will get back to them [sooner than you think, if what happens later will not take forever])  
**

**(When my brother and I aren't trading sexually-based insults at each other because of which side we chose in the Civil War quest-line, we ask ourselves the deep questions, like...who are the Silver Hand, besides just, well, you know. Why do they do it? Are they just a loose organization of thug-like people? And if so, how can they get hold of so much silver for their weapons? I haven't found a lore-based answer, so I made one here for the sake of this story.)**

**(By the next chapter [or the end of this chapter, if I'm feeling evil and want to put another cliff-hangar in], I will have one of the strangest random encounters posted. Well, I certainly thought it was strange.)**

* * *

**The Parting of the Ways**

Within two days, Eirik had gone from being a new blood, walking through the doors of the mighty hall of Jorrvaskr, to being one of best prospects for new member of the Companions. He slept in the living quarters beneath Jorrvaskr hall on the first night and on the second day, he received new orders from their leader, whose name was Kodlak Whitemane. For his final task, his initiation into the Companions, he would be going into Dustman's Cairn, northwest of Whiterun in the southern reaches of Hjaalmarch hold. His initiation would be overseen by Farkas, the brother of Vilkas. Eirik felt that he would like this man better, as he appeared to be, like Eirik, a warrior of great strength. When he left the hall, Farkas gave him a few words of advice.

"If we go separately," the tall Nord said. "Meet me at the gates of Dustman's Cairn. And be wary of the Silver Hand."

Eirik left the hall with foreboding in his heart. He made his way to Breezehome immediately, though he kept the words of Farkas in his mind. What did they mean? He had never heard of the Silver Hand, but then again, there were many things he had not heard of in Skyrim alone. Perhaps the others would know, which was one of the reasons he was choosing to return to his house in the Plains District. There were, of course, other reasons.

As he pushed open the door of Breezehome, he found it unlocked. Upon opening it, he found a great and slightly unwelcome surprise. Sitting in the chair before the fire-pit was Crixus, a bottle in his hand and Lydia nearby, preparing food.

"What brings you here?" he asked. "This is my house!"

"I'm just visiting," the Cyrodilian replied. "Besides, it's my last day in Whiterun."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"He told me about it, my thane," Lydia said.

"You mean _you_ let him in?" he asked.

"He said he had important things to tell you," she said. "If I have done wrong here..."

"What things?"

"What, not even a 'hello', or a 'Talos bless you', or whatever you Nords say for greetings in this part of Tamriel?" Crixus laughed, taking a long, deep drink from the bottle. "I'll soon be out of your hair, leaving you free to do whatever it is you do when I'm not here."

"But why?" Eirik asked.

"I've got better things to do than babysit Stormcloak sympathizers," Crixus said. "And were that not so, I have my duty to the Empire to fulfill."

"Where is Mjoll?" he asked.

"Down by the river," Lydia replied. "She's been busy doing whatever it is she does when you're not around. Earning a bit of gold at it too, I might add."

Eirik closed the door behind him and walked over to the other chair, in which he sat and turned to the Imperial.

"So?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Are you still interested in going to Winterhold?" Crixus asked. "Or has your time with Ysgramor's favorite butchers put you off to finding the Elder Scroll?"

"Why do you ask?" Eirik asked, ignoring Crixus' usual comments.

"It's just that a group of young pilgrims are making their way to the Mage's College," he said. "Students, I guess, from the Arcane University. Though why they can't just stay in the Imperial City is beyond me. The Mage's Guild is much more advanced in the magical arts: they at least haven't blown the Imperial City into Lake Rumare."

"Where are you getting with this?" Eirik asked.

"The group is staying at the Bannered Mare," Crixus said. "They have Imperial passes and everything, which is why they got through the blockade. If you should stick through with them, you might be able to get to Winterhold unseen."

"Why are you telling me this?" the Nord asked.

"As I said," Crixus replied. "There are better pursuits than following everything you do."

"I'll consider it," Eirik replied noncommittally. "Now, maybe _you_ could help me."

"With what?" Crixus laughed. "I thought Nords were supposed to be self-sufficient."

"Have you ever heard of the Silver Hand?" he asked.

"Yeah, I've heard of them," Crixus replied. "Before the war, there was...a group of crusaders in Cyrodiil. Murderous do-gooder sorts, the ones who'll burn a whole village to the ground just because one of the townsfolk worships a benign daedric prince. Whatever happened to them is anyone's guess, probably dead for all we know. As it turns out, there were many other groups like them: the Dawnguard, the Vigilants of Stendarr.

"Then there's the Silver Hand, possibly the most violent of these types. Like most others of their type, they think daedra are evil and the children of Hircine, the wolf-men, are just beasts to be slain. Heh! They think they're actually doing something against Hircine by hunting the wolf-men. That's the one thing you should know about the daedric princes. If you're approached by them, you're bound to them forever. Nothing can get you out of their service, and even if you choose to oppose their will, you'll find yourself serving their will more than actually opposing it."

Eirik said nothing, for his concern was mainly for this group. "So what is this about the Silver Hand?"

"They hunt and kill wolf-men," Crixus said. "I heard they've been particularly active around the hold, but I don't care. I'm not on their hit-list, and if I was, there wouldn't be a Silver Hand, would there?"

"You're certainly proud of yourself," Eirik stated.

"I know what I'm good at doing," the Imperial stated. "I'm not going to lie for the sake of 'honor' or such." With a chuckle, he drank from the bottle once again.

"I'm going to look for Mjoll," he sighed. He walked over to Lydia. "Watch him like a hawk. If he steals anything, then I _will_ punish you."

* * *

Eirik practically jogged the rest of the way out of the gates and down the great hill upon which Whiterun was built. He made his final approach down to the river, the bank of the White River which had its westernmost arm in the eastern reaches of the hold of Whiterun. There wasn't much in the way of hiding, and Eirik saw pretty much everything as far as the western flanks of the Throat of the World. Atop its lofty heights, hidden now beneath the clouds that gathered about its snow-clad horns, was the dragon Paarthurnax. Northward now lay the quest to seek knowledge of the Elder Scrolls in the Mage's City of Winterhold. Directly south, now, he saw someone approaching, clad in banded iron armor, her red-golden hair slick and wet, hanging to her shoulders.

"It's been too long, Eirik," she greeted. "I see the warriors of Jorrvaskr have not been starving you."

"Nay," he replied. "I've come in search of you, though. Our time in Whiterun is at an end. Soon we shall head north into Winterhold, to seek the Elder Scrolls."

"I am glad," Mjoll replied. "Whiterun is a beautiful city, but my heart yearns for the open road and the thrill of battle, which I have been too long without these past days. It will be good to be on the road again."

"Aye," Eirik stated. "It will be good to be about Skyrim."

Together they made their way back to Breezehome. Lydia, once again, was given charge to keep care of the house in Eirik's absence. She grumbled again, saying something about being treated as less than a pack-mule, but eventually agreed. She was still, after all, his huscarl and sworn to follow his orders. While Eirik was sharpening his sword and Mjoll preparing dyer's woad for her war-paint, there was a knock at the door. Lydia opened the door and in walked Crixus, with a young Nord at his side with something in his arms.

"Hello, Sigurd," Eirik greeted the young man. "How is Belethor?"

"Greedy, as always," the young man replied. "But still, I do my job as well as any apprentice." He turned to Crixus.

"What? I paid your master already," he said. "You can take your fee from whatever he'll give you, now get back or I'll tell him you were slacking off on the job." The young man deposited the things he was carrying on the floor and then departed. Once the door was shut, the Cyrodilian turned to Eirik. "What? You didn't think I was going to let you go walking through Whiterun dressed as you are? You stick out like an Argonian in these parts!"

"What are they?" Eirik asked.

"Mage clothes," he said. "Bought them from Farengar up at Dragonsreach. No one would suspect two additional mages in the group."

"Why are you doing this?" Eirik asked again. "You hate us Nords, you hate _us_! It's almost like you, well, you know..."

"Don't say it," Crixus returned. "Besides, what would you do without me? Now get into your robes and get the hell out of Whiterun. Your party is getting ready to leave as we speak."

* * *

So it was that Eirik Dragonborn and Mjoll the Lioness left Whiterun dressed in the garb of mage students from Cyrodiil. Though they were rather larger than most of the other students, there were some Nords among them: very few, but enough for their height to not stand out too much. Their robes were rather cumbersome, covering their armor and weapons. Eirik had made sure to equip his gear beneath his armor, which made him feel even more cumbersome and awkward.

"This is never going to work," Mjoll exclaimed. "We're too loud, this won't last long."

"What's the worst they could do?" Eirik murmured. "This is nothing compared to sneaking into the Thalmor Embassy."

"You did what?" Mjoll whispered.

"I can't tell you that story yet," he replied. "I'd have to start from the beginning."

"Isn't that what you've done already?" Mjoll chuckled.

"Not exactly," Eirik shook his head. "There's still the tale of how I slew frost wraiths before the Serpent Stone in the Sea of Ghosts and my journey in Ustengrav."

"That would be a tale indeed!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"Look!" Eirik exclaimed.

As they were making their way down the path that led down the hill on which Whiterun was built, they saw a horseman riding down on a swift black horse. They had no doubts in their mind who this was, but it was strange to see this particular person departing in the full light of day. But his path was not theirs as they watched his horse disappear southwards across the golden plains of Whiterun, towards Riverwood. On the tops of the white-headed mountains they could see a tiny black speck spiraling about the spires. That black shape he knew all too well, from Helgen, from Kynesgrove. The memories of the atrocities - images of burning bodies, the screams of the dying people of Helgen, Nord and Cyrodilian - came back into his mind. All doubt fled: he knew what he had to do, what he was born to do.

* * *

**(AN: After so many long chapters, I thought it would be good to give you a shorter one. I don't know, considering how I made a promise, I don't think I'll be going into a flash-back in the next chapter but show you that odd encounter.)**


	48. The Ruined City

**(AN: Yay, reviews! _Cyrus_, I really have no sympathy for the Thalmor, since they "shot first" in the Empire/Dominion War, are the main agitators of the conflict, [spoilers!] used Ulfric's nationalism to undermine both the Empire and Skyrim, and are intent on restarting the war [and, seeing how the Empire hasn't recovered fully from the war, it looks like they won't win, whether Skyrim is with them or not]. I frequently refer to them in my notes as the Gestapo, and, due to certain story circumstances which will be revealed in time, I need a new villain besides "those damn Imperials." Lol, _Dany le Fou_, maybe Vilkas was "otherwise busy" on the day Eirik slew the dragon[s]. Also, and I'm only saying this because the lore makes one seem that they do kind of treat each other as equals - Harbinger really isn't a head, since there hasn't been one since Ysgramor - it seems that the Companions are like a brotherhood of warriors, where all are equal and nothing special is done for those with titles or such, as they're all called "shield-brother" or "shield-sister".)**

**(The book is _Guide to Bruma_ which is an unashamedly racist depiction of the only Nord city in Cyrodiil, like _Bone I_ from _Morrowind_, which repeatedly refers to Nords as "cannibals." Oh, did I mention that _Guide to Bruma_ is written, not by a Dunmer, like _Bone I_, or those Altmer who think the Eight are "our ancestors" and therefore are entitled to everything, but by an Imperial? Yes, a Cyrodilian, by Shor! So you see? I didn't just pull out of nowhere that Imperials are capable of racism, it's based on actual game lore.)**

* * *

**The Ruined City**

A long day of march and a quiet night in the snows of the northwestern Eastmarch and the company of sorcerers were soon on their way to the snows of the northernmost hold of Skyrim: Winterhold. Eirik found that his robes kept him somewhat warm in the cold autumn winds that blew down upon them from the north. Furthermore, there was another reason to be thankful for this disguise. On the day before they left Whiterun Hold, one of the Imperial cohorts that had been patrolling the hold decided to accompany them as far as the city of Winterhold.

"While Winterhold is still favorable to new applicants," the cohort commander said. "All the lands east of Whiterun are under the control of the rebels and are not safe for outsiders, especially for those who aren't Nords."

There were many whispers among the apprentice wizards, fearful of what they might encounter in this region. The rest of that day was spent in quiet vigil, with every eye looking on either side and up to the skies. When at last they set up camp, the Imperials surrounded the sorcerers with their sentries and Eirik was happy that he wore a hood over his head. He and Mjoll were squatting in the snow around the fire-pit, created by an ever-flame spell cast by one of the young mages. At Mjoll's suggestion, they opted to listen to what was being said and say nothing.

"It's too damn cold!" one of the young sorcerers, a Cyrodilian, exclaimed. "Why would these idiot Nords build a college in such a horribly out-of-the-way place?"

"Well, what can you expect?" a Khajiit asked. "They're not proper humans like you Imperials, they actually _like_ the cold."

"Why would anyone want to come to this skeever hole of a country any how?" an Altmer woman asked.

"Why did _you_?" the Cyrodilian asked.

"I was rejected from the Arcane University," she replied. "This damn war has made my people unpopular."

"Your kind are unpopular here too!" a thin, raspy voice hissed. The scaly snout of an Argonian popped out of the hood of a rather tall mage apprentice.

"Still," the Altmer sighed. "There are _other_ reasons for coming to this institute of learning."

"What are those?" the Khajiit asked inquisitively.

"Well, the Mage's College isn't part of the Mage's Guild," the Altmer said. "Which means that they're a bit more lenient on what they teach, such as the more, shall we say, liberal arts of magicka."

"I wish we'd get moving," grumbled another Cyrodilian, a young woman. "I wouldn't want to be beset by bandits in this land."

"Bah!" sneered the Cyrodilian man. "This is Skyrim, they're all drunkards and bandits. Haven't you ever read the _Guide to Bruma_?"

Mjoll saw Eirik flinch next to her, and his lips curled into a snarl at the Imperial's remark.

"This is Skyrim, not Bruma," the Altmer said.

"What's the difference?" the Argonian hissed. "It's cold here and there are crazy Nords running about, rolling about in the mud and shit drunkenly, rioting and rebelling. At least Bruma is in Imperial territory, this is as close as one could get to the Shivering Isles this side of Oblivion!"

"I agree," the Khajiit added. "But at least they make up for it by being dumber than a skooma addict."

"Plan on picking a few pockets in the college, are you?" the Argonian laughed. In response, the Khajiit hissed at the Argonian and took off his gloves as sharp claws slid out of what looked like his finger-tips.

"I'm an honest Khajiit," he growled. "I won't let anyone say otherwise, most definitely not some scale-back!"

"Enough, both of you!" the Altmer shouted. "Look at you, less than a week in this frozen shit-hole of a country and you're already acting like its Eight-forsaken denizens!"

They quieted down for a while, but this did not last long as the topic of conversation returned once again to the locals of Skyrim.

"What do you think we'll find in Winterhold?" the Khajiit asked.

"Search me," the Cyrodilian male said. "Although don't expect something impressive like Solitude."

"Why?" the Cyrodilian woman asked.

"About a hundred years ago," he began. "There was a big storm that swept the majority of Winterhold into the Sea of Ghosts. Strangest part, though, is that the Mage's College of Winterhold was left intact and unharmed. Most of the city destroyed around it, fallen into the sea, and yet the College is still standing."

"I say it was the idiot Nords," the Altmer woman stated. "They were playing with forces beyond the reckoning of their tiny minds and unleashed a magical disaster they weren't capable of assuaging."

"Yeah?" the Khajiit snickered. "Well, from what I've heard, the idiot Nords are afraid of magic, don't trust anyone who wields it. I'd be surprised if any Nords could have done something _that_ disastrous."

"It wasn't the Nords," the Cyrodilic woman stated. "I've heard that it was some kind of after-affect of the eruption of the Red Mountain."

"Over a hundred years _after_ the eruption, you mean!" sneered the Cyrodilian man.

"And how could the eruption of the Red Mountain," the Argonian asked. "Cause storms all the way in Winterhold?"

"I've heard there are still ash-clouds in Morrowind as far north as Solstheim," the Cyrodilian man stated. "Obviously the Red Mountain is capable of great and terrible things."

So it was that, at last weary of all the seemingly pointless discussion, Mjoll and Eirik retired. As they were finding a place on the snowy ground that was not very damp. Wrapping themselves in their cloaks and huddling down next to a tree, they drifted off into sleep. Eirik, however, did not fall asleep immediately. These words were exactly those which Crixus had said in their many meetings. He pondered again on their words and, once again, he asked himself if the Nords were really like this? Was he upholding the ways of his ancestors merely because they were the only thing he had known and had been taught? Were the people outside of Skyrim different, better, more civilized as Crixus had said? But he was different, Eirik: he could read and write, he was not like the depictions of his people in those books. Then he wondered something else: was he becoming more like the Imperials and less like his own people? Would he one day give up the faith of his fathers and the traditions of his ancestors?

Was he indeed defending the traditions of his people or merely holding onto something that was swiftly slipping away?

* * *

When the morning finally arrived, it was bleak and the sky overcast in heavy, dark clouds which forebode a snow fall. They packed up what few belongings they had and got themselves upon their way once again. They had camped along the north-eastern marches of Lake Yorgrim, within sight of the high pinnacle of the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm. The cohort continued with them into this territory, swords drawn and shields girt. Among the soldiers, Eirik and Mjoll could hear them whispering whether they would meet the Stormcloaks or not. Some hoped they would not, having heard the horrible stories of the cannibalistic, barbaric Nords and how they ate the hearts of their enemies. Others were not so fearful and hoped they would meet the Stormcloaks, eager to cut down as many as they could, thus thinning their numbers and bringing victory for the Empire closer.

The path they took to Winterhold would lead them northeastward, skirting around Windhelm in the south and then moving around the mountains of the north and arriving at the eastern border of Winterhold. The cohort commander had explained this to those apprentices who had asked, and some of them, those who had read a map and had at least some inkling of the landscape of Skyrim, wondered questioned this move. They were in favor of going westward, snaking up the western side of the mountains, away from the winds and snows of the North and the threat of the rebels in Windhelm. They argued then that they could make their way to Winterhold by way of Dawnstar by simply going east. The commander dismissed this almost immediately.

"All of the lands east of Whiterun belong to the rebels," he said. "While this path takes us perilously close to Windhelm, we would be walking in Stormcloak territory much longer if we went by way of Dawnstar. Furthermore, once you've been delivered to the Mage's College, my cohort still needs to return to safe territory. Either way is dangerous, but traveling through Eastmarch would lessen the threat of being buried in snow, as winter will soon be upon us."

So they passed Windhelm by the south. Many feared that they would be assaulted, raped and slaughtered by the mindless Nord rebels. But the Stormcloaks were busy away south and west, facing against the Imperial cohorts in Morthal and the southern marshes of the Eastmarch on the borders of Riften, and they were not attacked. In fact, eager as the apprentice mages were to be gone from Eastmarch, they made good time and were soon passing the mountains on their left-hand. On their right was a great sloping drift of snow that led all the way down to the shore. Several ruins dotted the landscape here, which belonged to the ancient Nords. The most known, even among those who were foreigners, was the barrow of Yngol, the eldest son of Ysgramor. It was said that his barrow was so dark that not even the light of torches could illuminate its darkened halls and many foolhardy tomb-robbers were forever lost attempting to probe the secrets of Yngol's Barrow.

At last, however, they passed through the mountains and came to a place that was possibly even more run-down and miserable-looking than Morthal and Riften combined. Nestled against a high cliff on the western side were a few buildings of thatched roofs. A stave-style longhouse of wood had been erected among them, but there wasn't much else. Beyond the wooden buildings there was nothing, a dreadful fall into the Sea of Ghosts beyond. There, standing as though it were floating above the sea, was a great stone castle, with dark banners flying in the breeze. These banners were black, set with a silvery eye with five rays pointing out from the eye: one ray pointing directly down, two pointing outward from the sides, and the last two pointing outward at each angle, northwest and northeast.

"Ah, Winterhold," Mjoll sighed at Eirik's side. "I've always wanted to visit this place. The secrets locked behind the walls of the Mage's College must be astounding."

"You don't find magicka...unsettling or untrustworthy?" Eirik added.

"Hardly," she said. "Although, I have never trusted the dark arts. Merely the thought of them makes my skin crawl."

The group continued on towards that castle in the sky and came to a narrow bridge of stone, departing from the cliff-edge and snaking out to the castle. Several voices were exclaiming in surprise, but Eirik and Mjoll were not close enough to see what it was that had caught their attention. At the head of the group, standing upon the stone bridge, was an Altmer woman in the garb of a mage. After a little while, Eirik guessed that it was her duty to test the initiates on their magical skills before allowing them passage into the College.

Suddenly there was a mighty roar and a great dragon appeared out of the darkened clouds above. It swooped down upon the town of Winterhold, sending everything into panic. Most people ran in terror, screaming and crying to all the gods and daedra, from Azura to Zenithar, to save them. The apprentices cowered in what little there was to hid behind or exclaimed in wonder at the mighty beast. The city guards, which few of them there were, drew out their bows and fired at the sky-bound behemoth. The dragon flew down and picked up one of the guards in its jaws. There was a blood-curdling cry, and then it was silenced. Around the dragon wheeled again, breathing fire down upon the ruin of the town outside of the college, then flew his way up to the College.

"Out of my way!" Eirik shouted, as he began pushing his way through the foolish mages who were looking up at the dragon in wonder or attempting to summon fireballs, lightning bolts or atronachs to fight off the beast. He came to the bridge, where still stood the Altmer.

"I have to get through," he said. "That dragon is going to destroy your college. I have to do something!"

"College rules, Nord!" she sneered, though her voice betrayed fear and worry. "None of you ignorant half-wits are allowed on the College grounds unless you have magical talent!"

"It's a fucking dragon!" Eirik shouted. "If you don't let me pass, there won't be a college to protect!"

"I don't make the rules," she replied. "I just enforce them."

"Fine, you want a test of magical talent?" Eirik asked. He then ran towards the bridge to the college, but something threw him back. He looked forward and saw what looked like a wall of solid water. Turning about, he saw the Altmer with her hands held up. She had summoned a ward that kept him from going into the college.

"You're going to stand in my way?!" Eirik shouted. "Hundreds of people are going to die and you won't bend your rules for one moment?!"

Before them, the dragon came to rest on the gate to the College, breathing fire at the College mages inside who were attempting to throw fireballs or frost-darts at him. Eirik looked up, over the top of the ward, focused on the dragon above, and then inhaled.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

The unrelenting force of his Thu'um shook the very stones of the bridge, sending snow tumbling off the cliff-ledge behind him. The dragon's long, snake-like neck was thrown against one of the towers of the College, as though one of the gods themselves had come down, seized the dragon's neck, and thrown it against the high tower.

"It...it can't be!" one voice asked nearby.

"The Septims are dead, this isn't possible!"

"Did he just..."

"Dragonborn!" one of the guards shouted.

"I...I don't know what to say," the Altmer woman said in shock.

"Just let me through!" Eirik shouted.

She sighed, and then the ward vanished. With his cloak still gathered about his neck, Eirik ran down the bridge that seemed to float in the air. For one brief moment, he could see that the College, which he believed was floating in the air, was standing upon an island of rock with high cliffs that held it up to the level of the rest of the city. It did not look as though it had been built this way, but Eirik had no time to question why the College was thus constructed. He had come to a great iron gate, inlaid with the eye and the star that he had seen upon the banners of the town and the College.

"_Dovahkiin_," the dragon growled from above as Eirik stood before the gate. "_Hin dinok los grik lot Moro!_"

Eirik drew out the blade of the Bloodskal and swung it up at the dragon. A wave of crimson energy struck the dragon in the snout and it recoiled with a roar. He swung again, but this time the dragon's neck swerved aside and the bolt of energy struck the stones, sending a cloud of dust falling down into the sea. The dragon leaned its long neck backwards and shouted.

"_Yol...Toor Shul!_"

Eirik was engulfed in searing heat, yet he was not burned. Looking up, he saw a rippling wave of solid water just inches above his face, holding off the fury of the dragon's fire. He looked back, but could see nothing through the fire. Suddenly, the flames dissipated and the ward vanished.

"Come down, dragon!" Eirik shouted. "Face me, or forever be known as _Nivahriin!_"

The word came to him as if from out of his very spirit. He had never heard that word before, neither spoken by the Greybeards or any of the dragons he had encountered. But he guessed that he had spoken right, for the dragon took wing and left the gate. He then flew down before the bridge, beating his wings so great that Eirik had to seize the stone bridge with both hands to keep from being blown off into the sea.

"_Yol..._" the dragon began.

"_Wuld!_" Eirik shouted in retort, sword held tightly in his hands.

The Nord flew off of the stone bridge, through the air, and his sword dug deep into the dragon's underbelly. The beast flailed about in the sky, blood pouring out of its open gut. It weaved to one side and then the other, smashing hard against the cliff wall before sliding off into the sea, crashing with a sickening crunch upon the rocks below before finally disappearing with a great splash into the waves.

All those present in the streets of Winterhold ran to the edge, and many were now crowding on the stone bridge, which looked as though there were no rational way that it could hold them all and still remain standing. Their eyes were trained on the waves, looking eagerly for he who had been their champion. It seemed like such a horrible way to go, and yet all together honorable as well. The doom-driven one had given his life to save Skyrim from the threat of the dragons' return.

Mjoll, however, heard something nearby, a voice groaning and straining. She ran to the ledge and watched as Eirik, covered in black dragon blood, crawled his way back onto the top of the cliff. His robes were burned, revealing his steel armor beneath, drenched in blood and blackened with dragon's fire. As he at last rose to his feet, panting heavily, a gust of wind blew up from the sea, wreathing him in a blaze of fire. Eirik felt new life coursing through his veins once again as the dragon's soul became part of his own power.

* * *

**(AN: This actually happened when I first came to Winterhold and they weren't going to let me pass into the College to fight the dragon. I guess they really don't like having Nords in the college grounds _that_ much. Also, before you rage on me that what happened is entirely implausible, I just had this happen three times when I was playing again [to say nothing of how many times it happened in my first playthrough], where a ward kept someone from being harmed by a Dragon shout. Yes, that's right, mere magical wards stopped a Thu'um.)**

**(I _really_ wanted a cliff-hangar, but I decided I'd spare you that and instead just fulfill it on that epic image. We'll find out who cast that ward, though, in the next chapter, so don't go anywhere.)**


	49. Seeking the Lost

**(AN: -sigh- the College of Winterhold really holds a high place in the hearts of players of _Skyrim_. If one supposes the very real possibility that they blew up Winterhold, you're written off as "just another stupid racist Stormcloak". Seriously, blame the eruption of the Red Mountain? That was a hundred years before the Great Collapse and how could the eruption have caused storms that destroyed the town a hundred years afterwards? Furthermore, if the mages were so powerful that they could protect their college from being destroyed, why couldn't they do the same for the rest of the town?)**

* * *

**Seeking the Lost**

Though he had left Whiterun in secret, there was no more secret that the Dragonborn had come to Winterhold. Tongues wagged, people laughed, cried and cheered as he walked past and many of the guards offered to buy him drinks at the Frozen Hearth inn. Even some of the sorcerers were impressed, cheering him on and giving him great praise. In the midst of this, one lone sorcerer was making his way through the crowds to where Eirik stood, Mjoll at his side, surrounded by cheering and applause.

"That was a fine feat, no doubt about that," he said to Eirik over the roar of the crowd. He then placed his hand on Eirik's shoulder and, leaning in, whispered in his ear. "You better come with me. Too many eyes and not everyone in the College can be trusted."

Following the hooded sorcerer, Eirik and Mjoll passed through the crowds and away from the College. They came to a two-story house on the western end of town, within a stone's throw of the longhouse and across the street from a broken down wreck of a house. The sorcerer opened the door and ushered Eirik and Mjoll inside. Within the house, Eirik saw a white-haired Nord rise up from his seat.

"It's alright, Kraldar. We need to use the upper room, away from unfriendly eyes." the sorcerer said. Away from the roar of the streets, Eirik could hear that the sorcerer was Cyrodilian. The Nord named Kraldar grunted his consent, then Eirik and Mjoll were led up the stairs and into a bedroom. Once upstairs, the sorcerer removed his hood. He was Cyrodilian, with darker skin than Eirik or Mjoll: dark was his hair, almost like Eirik's, yet tied at the back, and he had a small goatee upon his chin no bigger than a giant's thumbnail.

"Alright, now," the Cyrodilian sorcerer said. "Tell me everything, right now. Beginning with your name."

"Uh, Eirik," he returned. "Formerly of Falkreath, but I make berth in Whiterun."

"Immaterial, immaterial," the young sorcerer dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Who _are_ you?"

"I'm Thane of Whiterun," he began. "I, uh..."

"Oh, by the Eight!" he exclaimed. "You people really are as dense as Alessia Ottus said you were!"

"What?"

"Are you really that dumb?" he asked. "What happened just a few moments ago, with the dragon and all."

"Yes?" Eirik asked.

"What are you?" the Cyrodilian asked again.

"It's a trap," Mjoll stated, reaching onto her back for Grimsever.

"If I wanted you dead," the Cyrodilian said. "I would have let the dragon do it for me instead of casting the ward that saved your Nordic ass. Now answer my question: who are you?"

"Dragonborn," Eirik replied.

"Wrong answer," he returned. Seeing Mjoll reach for her sword, the Cyrodilian took a step back, hands outstretched either in a plea for mercy or readying a spell of defense. "Wait, wait! Before you take off my head, just hear me out! I said you're not the Dragonborn because I've seen him."

"You've seen him?" Eirik asked.

"Yeah, blessing of Akatosh," he began. "Stealing the souls of dragons? I saw him on his first arrival in Riften." He chuckled at Eirik's shocked expression. "What, you think I'm joking?"

"Eirik, don't bother with him," Mjoll said. "He's a sellsword."

"I am an apprentice wizard, I'll have you know!" he retorted. "And fancy seeing you here, Lioness. I thought you never left Riften. And where's that mewling little toady always dogging your steps? Hmm, that imp of a Cyrodilian, what was his name? Alaric? Osric?"

"Aerin," Mjoll retorted.

"Wait, how do you know of them?" Eirik asked.

"He's one of the regulars at the Bee and Barb," Mjoll said.

"And _he_ is right here!" the Imperial mage replied. "My name is Marcurio."

"Wait, you're Marcurio?" Eirik asked.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Marcurio replied, folding his arms confidently across his chest.

"Crixus told us to meet you," Eirik began, but Marcurio interrupted him.

"You know Crixus?" he asked. "The real Dragonborn?"

"Him?" Eirik asked with a laugh. "That's as much an insult as the Age of Aggression!"

"This whole rebellion is an insult to the Empire," Marcurio replied. "At least that's what Crixus says. Me? I just go along for the money."

"And what brings you away from Riften?" Mjoll asked, crossing her arms upon her breastplate beneath her robes.

"He ran afoul of those accursed rebels," Marcurio said. "He paid me enough so I accompanied his ass to Solitude, Morthal, Markarth, Falkreath, Whiterun and then here. I told him I would have been of much better use to him in Riften as a spy, but he said he had other means of gathering information, whatever _that_ means."

"And he left you here?" Eirik asked.

"Yes and no," Marcurio replied. "He wanted to go it alone after a while and I wanted to come to Winterhold and school these apprentices in the art of _real_ sorcery."

"This is a waste of time," Eirik sighed. "We came here for the College, we don't need some arrogant little Cyrodilian sorcerer."

"You think your fists and sword can bring down any obstacle in your way?" Marcurio asked. Eirik turned around. "If Crixus really told you to meet me, he must see something _very_ special in you. I've never seen him regard a Nord as anything more than an animal."

"You don't say," Mjoll added.

"What do you know?" Eirik asked.

"Quite a bit, actually," said Marcurio. "And if you're intending on going into the College, you'll need my help."

"Your help?"

"Oh yes," Marcurio began. "Mirabelle Ervine can give you the grand tour and show you everything the College has to offer: the Dunmer Arch-Mage Savos Aren and various other trainers. But if you went up to the gates of the College and asked for admittance, you'd be a fool. They don't let Nords in, unless they have some magical talent. Maybe you can get by with your Voice, that seemed to have fooled them once already. Nevertheless, there's some dirty work afoot in the College, mark my words"

"And why should we believe you?" Mjoll asked. "You're a mercenary, you're paid to fight, probably paid to talk and lie for your Imperial master."

"I am a free man!" Marcurio replied. "Which is more than can be said of you two straw-headed coxcombs." He sighed, composing himself. "But, as I was saying, your little stunt didn't help you any. You're undoubtedly in the sights of Arch-Mage Ancano."

"Who's that?" Eirik asked.

"Adviser to Savos Aren," Marcurio said. "Easily recognized: tall, white-haired, dressed in black, golden skin, high forehead. But there's more."

"What more?"

"I've said too much as it is," Marcurio dismissed. "Look, either way, you're gonna need my help."

"And what price do you ask for your help?" Mjoll asked.

"Right now, I'd leave this boring-ass town for free," Marcurio stated. "However, some of us need to eat and sleep in a place with four walls and a roof. One thousand septims in advance, that does not include travel expenses, food and bedding and various other purchases such as robes or spell-books."

"That's outrageous!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"Maybe there is something you can help me with," Eirik asked. "I am looking for...a particularly rare magical item of a very powerful nature."

"Heh. Didn't know Nords could use them big words," Marcurio mocked, imitating a thick Nordic accent.

"This is serious!" Eirik said through gritted teeth.

"Alright, alright," the Imperial sighed. "Your best bet would be the Mage Librarian in the Arcanaeum in the College. Old Orsimer, takes his job a bit too seriously, if you ask me. He would know about anything about rare and powerful magical items. I'll take you there, but it's going to cost you two drinks at the Frozen Hearth." He then put his hood back over his head and led them down the stairs to the ground level.

"I can see why Crixus would like hanging out with this one," Eirik whispered.

"You said it, Eirik," Mjoll sighed resignedly.

* * *

The three of them were now outside of Kraldar's house and making their way to the College of Winterhold. Now that the threat of the dragon was gone, Mjoll and Eirik got more time to examine the wonders of this magical symposium. The majority of the town, as they had seen from the view from the bridge, was built upon a cliff that had been strangely undercut. The bridge was built on seemingly nothing, though there were two points where its turns were standing upon tall pillars of rock. The main part of the college, though, was built upon the tall pillar of rock that stood out from the rest of the town. There was nothing else around it, only empty, cold air.

"The Great Collapse," Eirik murmured.

"Another conspiracy theorist, eh?" Marcurio laughed. "It was the Red Mountain."

"Would you want to make that mistake known?" Eirik asked.

"What mistake?" scoffed Marcurio.

"If you had destroyed half a city," Eirik said. "Claimed thousands of lives, over your own magic which you could not control, would you want everyone to know it was your fault?"

"You sound like the rest of these stinking half-wit Nords," Marcurio chuckled. "It was the Red Mountain, and there ends the matter."

"That was over a hundred years before the Collapse," Eirik stated.

"If you say so," Marcurio laughed. "Keep telling yourself that. Just follow me and don't talk to anyone or anything, especially Ancano."

They passed through the gates, which opened before Marcurio, and came upon a wide courtyard with a stone statue in the center. It was of a robed and hooded sorcerer, standing proudly, with both hands outstretched and cloak billowing freely behind his back. Behind the statue was a great wooden door, which Marcurio opened with a wave of his hand, leading the two of them inside and away from the howling winds. The moment Eirik stepped inside, he saw every eye turn and stare at him. There was no anger, no outward signs of hatred that he saw from Altmer or traitorous Nords like the Battle-Born clan, they were simply staring at him because he was there to stare at: because he was a Nord and not allowed on the College grounds. Mjoll pulled her hood down over her face a bit lower as Marcurio took them through a door on the right and up a flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs, there was a room with a tall, domed ceiling. It was cold, with a few candles sitting in goat horns upon the stone pillars or hanging from the ceiling. There were bookshelves here, some of them two stories tall, filled with so many books that merely thinking about them made Eirik's head spin. Marcurio lead them up to a desk with two candles upon it. Nearby, on a small chair, sat a balding Orc with a long white beard, pouring over a book.

"Master Urag!" Marcurio greeted. "How are the tomes treating you?"

"Better than most people at the College," the Orc groaned. "To say nothing of the rest of Skyrim. Now is there something you want, Marcurio? I'm on my lunch break."

"What, here in the Arcanaeum?" Marcurio laughed. "Won't you spill crumbs on your precious books?"

"Fuck off, Imperial!" Urag groaned. "I'm not as messy as you lot." He looked up at Eirik. "So you're the new guy, eh?"

"How do you know about me?" he asked.

"J'zargo said something about a Nord fighting off a dragon an hour ago," the Orc replied.

"Where is he?" Marcurio asked. "Great fellow, always has the best Destruction spells."

"He's in the training courtyard," Urag stated. Marcurio turned to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?" Eirik asked.

"I have better things to do than babysit wanna-be wizards," he replied, then left down the stairs. For a moment Eirik was distracted, then the Orc gave Eirik a nudge on the arm.

"If you plan on staying here for any meaningful period of time," Urag began. "Let me make something perfectly clear: don't mess with the books. This collection is the result of hundreds of years of painful research into all the fields of study: magic, history, legend, poetry, prose, strategy, ancient almanacs, grimories and tomes dating from before the First Era. If you damage any of these, I'll personally see to it that you're torn to shreds by angry atronachs. Are we clear?" Eirik nodded, which elicited a smile from the Orc. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a book," Eirik began.

"Well, you've obviously come to the right place," Urag snorted. "My name is Urag gro-Shub, I'm the librarian at the College's Arcanaeum. If it's not here, it doesn't exist."

"That's quite a tall order!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"Do you question the thoroughness of the Arcanaeum's archives?" Urag asked.

"No," Eirik interjected. "She was just saying how remarkable it is that you have so many. Uh, would you happen to know about an...Elder Scroll?"

"Hmm, maybe," Urag snorted, crossing his arms. "What's it to you? Do you even know what you're asking about or are you just someone's errand-boy?"

"Do you have one or not?" Eirik asked.

"And if I did," Urag retorted. "Do you think I'd let you see it? It would be kept under so great a security, not even the Nightingales of legend could so much as lay a finger on it."

"What about the Dragonborn?" Eirik asked.

"What about it?" Urag returned. "Playing wise with me?" He then paused. "Wait, I remember that Khajiit saying something about that. The hold guards said that about...wait, _you're_ the one the Greybeards were calling?"

"You heard that?" Eirik asked.

"Heh! All of Skyrim heard that," exlaimed Urag. "Midnight on the 19th of Last Seed, two hundred and first year of the Fourth Era. Hell, I'd bet even people in the Imperial City or Morrowind heard that call." He stroked his long white beard pensively. "Hmm, there's not much in our archives about the Elder Scrolls, I'm afraid to say. Well, nothing of any consequence."

"I'll take whatever you have," Eirik replied.

"Hmm, wait here." Urag said.

Leaving his half-eaten bread-loaf on the table, Urag wiped his hands upon the handkerchief in the pocket of his robes, then walked over to one of the book-shelves. With a key from his belt, he unlocked the iron grating over it and removed two large books. These he then carried over to the desk and placed them down.

"Here you go," he said. "But don't get your hopes up. These aren't the Elder Scrolls, mostly just lies peppered with rumor and speculation. Still, if you spill anything on them, I'll rip your guts out myself."

Eirik walked over to the leather-bound tomes and brought them over to one of the candle-lit tables, Mjoll at his side. The first book was bound in a reddish leather cover inlaid with gold. The title on the first page was _Effects of the Elder Scrolls_, with the author's name given as Justinius Poluhnius. The second book, bound with an emerald cover, was entitled _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls._ While the author, Septimus Signus, was also an Imperial, there was an interesting appellation added to the end: College of Winterhold.

"It's been a while since I've read anything new," Eirik said, looking over the books.

"These seem to be a bit old, though," Mjoll stated.

"And keep it quiet!" Urag added. "Or I'll cut out your tongues."

Eirik passed the book entitled _Effects of the Elder Scrolls_ to Mjoll, while he opened up the _Ruminations_, held it as close to the candlestick as he could and began reading it in a slow, hushed voice.

"_'Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric.'_" he began. "_'Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe-drink its warp and weft. Though the plant-matter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy. This is one manner in which the Scrolls first came to pass, but are we the sea, or the breather, or the fabric? Or are we the breath itself?'_"

"Master Urag," Eirik spoke up.

"This better be important," the Orc grumbled as he left his seat and walked over to where Eirik sat.

"Um...this book, I...do you know anything about it?" he asked.

"Old Septimus' book?" Urag asked. "Aye, he's Tamriel's master of the nature of the Elder Scrolls, only..."

"Only what?" Mjoll whispered.

"He's been gone a long time," the Orc continued. "Too long, if you ask me."

"Do you happen to know where he went?" Eirik asked.

"Somewhere up north," Urag groaned. "Said something about an ancient Dwemer artifact and so he went up into the ice-fields. But that was years ago and no one in the College has heard from him since. Now if you don't mind shutting up so the others can enjoy their books in peace?"

"Oh, aye, certainly," Eirik replied.

Urag sighed in frustration, then left back to his desk. Eirik then looked at Mjoll, who nodded silently. He then picked up the books and left the Arcanaeum the same way they had entered. Down the stairs they went and towards the great wooden doors to leave the College of Winterhold behind them.

* * *

**(AN: I'm really not digging going into _another_ Dwemer ruin, especially Alftand, since it's so damn HUGE. But the lore says that I must and therefore I must, and that was as good an ending for a chapter as any. Just to let you know, though, the next chapter will be VERY long.)**

**(I'll try to get the next chapter out soon, but it will take a while.)**


	50. Alftand

**(AN: -sigh- Dwemer ruins. I really hate Dwemer ruins. I'm gonna have to play through this one over again to see what it's like so I can get an accurate depiction. Also, I'm thinking about just dropping "Orc" as a title, since Orsimer is just "outcast Elves" and "Dwarves" was only used by the giants, which is why I use "Dwemer" to describe them all the time.)**

* * *

**Alftand**

As they were leaving the College of Winterhold, Mjoll noticed that Imperial spellsword following after them. Once they left the gates of the College and were once more in what was left of the town, she looked back and saw that he was still on their trail. She indicated to Eirik that they were being followed, to which Eirik halted and turned to the approaching Marcurio.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Marcurio spat back.

"You're following us, why?" Eirik asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" the Cyrodilian retorted. "I'm spying on you for the Mage's College! There aren't many Nordic sorcerers in the College, obviously they're suspicious of you." Marcurio laughed. "Oh, the look on your face!"

"Huh?"

"I made my conditions," Marcurio stated. "Now what about your answer?"

"Answer?" Eirik laughed. "Why should I even consider taking you on? We travel light, barely have enough money for our traveling expenses. Including you would mean three times as much food, not to mention the high cost of your fee."

"Hmph! You're rather smart for a Nord," Marcurio replied. "Still, you owe me two drinks and I intend to collect."

"I'm sorry, but it will have to wait," Eirik said. "We're going up north, in search of something."

"Then you'll have to wade through the Sea of Ghosts," Marcurio retorted. "There's nothing up there but the cold black sea and icebergs. Besides, even if you _were_ intending on doing this, it would have to wait until the morning. It's late as it is and you won't get far by foot before night falls."

"I've gone this far north on my own before," Eirik stated. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"Sure," Marcurio replied condescendingly. "And Ulfric Stormcloak is the High King of Skyrim!"

"Long live Ulfric!" a passing by townsman cried out, oblivious to Marcurio's mocking.

"Go fuck a cow!" Marcurio shouted at the bystander, then shook his head and turned back to Eirik and Mjoll. "Nevertheless, I'm coming with you. Pay me, now."

"Why do you think we need your help?" Eirik asked.

"Well, for one thing," Marcurio began. "Neither of you can cast a spell worth a shit. For another thing, you'll need the help of a spell-wielder wherever you're going this far north. Now get your heads out of your asses and take me with you."

Eirik sighed. "Very well."

"Wait!" Marcurio held up his hand, then opened it up. "Money first."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Eirik retorted.

"No, now hand over the drakes, come on now."

"No," Mjoll stated. "Now get lost."

"I'm talking to him, Lioness," Marcurio said, then turned back to Eirik. "We both know you would have been burned alive if I hadn't conjured that ward in the nick of time. You need me, whether your stubborn Nordic pride wants to admit it or not, now pay me my due."

Eirik and Mjoll exchanged glances with each other, then he turned back to Marcurio.

"Let's buy you that drink first," Eirik said.

* * *

At the Frozen Hearth, the three of them were seated at one of the tables. Marcurio was well into his third drink, all paid for by Eirik. Mjoll, meanwhile, was keeping her eyes about them, scanning the inn. It was almost deserted: the Nord proprietor, along with his wife and young daughter, were seated behind the counter. Of the patrons, there were only two of them. One was a hooded mage, though Mjoll swore she could detect a golden glow on his face that was not the dim light of the candles. The other was clad in dark robes and while he looked like a Breton, he was very tall. Mjoll didn't like the look of him and so turned her attention back to him and returned to the others.

"Very well, you've had your drinks," Eirik said. "Now, your price..."

"Is not negotiable," Marcurio replied. "Just pay up and don't make this any more difficult."

"Come now," Mjoll said, turning to Eirik. "How bad could it be?" Eirik sighed. "Come now, if it will make you feel any better, I'll pay for half."

He buried his face in his hands, then sighed as he reached for his purse. Mjoll, taking the hint, reached for her own purse. One by one they began making small piles of septims on the table. First in groups of ten, then in small piles of twenty and fifty. Marcurio, however, was losing his patience.

"Just give me your purse and I'll count out my own fee later," he replied.

"And rip us off like that Maven Black-Briar b*tch?" Mjoll retorted.

"You know, she's doing more good for Riften than you think," Marcurio smiled. Mjoll reached out and pushed back the cascade of gold coins that was piling up on the table.

"You think stealing from the poor is good for the people of Riften?" she retorted, her anger rising.

"Why not?" Marcurio replied.

Mjoll seized her tankard and threw it at Marcurio. In a quick moment, the Cyrodilian had conjured a ward which sent the golden mead splashing onto the table and on the coins. At this, the dark-clad stranger walked over to their table.

"Well well well," the Breton said with a smile on his face. "This looks like the makings of a merry little gathering. Spilled mead! Oh, what a waste! Not to worry, though. I brought some of my own." The Breton reached into his robes and pulled out a tall bottle filled with red wine that glistened in its bottle in the candle light.

"I apologize, friend," Eirik said. "But we're in the middle of a..."

"Oh, posh!" the Breton retorted. "A little friendly drink among such agreeable company never hurt anyone, did it? Oh, but I see you've got other things on your mind." The Breton reached for the gold, but Marcurio drew out his dagger and thrust it in the stranger's direction. "Hey! I don't mean no harm! But who needs gold when you have what I have?"

"Oh?" Marcurio replied. "And what's that?"

"A staff of great power," he said. "And I'll give it to any of you, free of charge."

"Free?" Mjoll asked suspiciously.

"Well, if you can out-drink me, that is," the Breton smiled. "Three rounds of my special brew, winner takes all. What do you say?"

"I'll take that," Marcurio said. "Three flagons of this tavern piss isn't nearly strong enough. Let's see what you've got!"

"Good man, good man!" the stranger said, removing the stopper from his bottle and pouring a round for Marcurio. Just as it was about to spill over, he began filling his own cup, then turned to Eirik and Mjoll. "What about you two sorry sods? Why not live a little, right?"

"I don't know," Mjoll whispered, turning to Eirik. "I don't trust this man."

"Come on, now!" the Breton challenged. "Are you Nords or aren't you? You wouldn't let a Breton and Imperial out-drink you, would you? Come, at least the Dragonborn isn't afraid to hold his liquor!"

"What did you say?" Eirik asked.

"Don't be daft, man! Not yet, at least!" the Breton said, then burst into laughter at his jest. "Come now, you strode the stone bridge to the Mage's College like the lusty Argonian maid strode her master's..."

"Lorkhan's balls!" Marcurio exclaimed. "That is good stuff! Excellent vintage!"

"...in front of _all_ of Winterhold!" the Breton exclaimed, waving his hand in a broad gesture. "To say nothing of the legends about you! Why, it won't be a secret anymore that the Dragonborn has indeed come." He looked about, then turned to Mjoll. "You, lady! Can you sing?"

"Uh, not very well..." Mjoll blushed.

"Oh, come now," he retorted. "I'm sure you could do well. Come on, sing us something. Sing us this man's song, eh?" He wrapped his arm around Eirik's shoulders, while slipping his drink into Eirik's hands. "I'm sure you know how it goes. 'Our hero, our hero...'"

Mjoll averted her eyes, then looked at Eirik, who was drinking deeply from his cup. Once done, he turned to her with a smile.

"Come now," he said. "What harm could there be?"

"Oh, I could kill you now!" Mjoll whispered. She then cleared her throat, and began to sing. Her singing voice was warm and reminded Eirik of a cold night in Candlehearth Hall, listening to another such voice.

_Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart  
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes_

"Excellent!" the Breton cried out. "Let's all have another round, shall we?" He then began pouring drinks for them.

"You never..." Eirik said, turning to Mjoll. "You never told me that you...that you could sing."

"They have minstrel colleges in Cyrodiil," Mjoll replied. "And I think you've had more than enough."

"More than enough?" the Breton laughed. "My dear girl, there's no such thing as more than enough wine! And you, you've been holding out on us! I insist you have at least one drink to loosen that tongue of yours."

"Where did you learn that absurd song?" Marcurio asked.

"My father taught it to me," Mjoll said. "He told me the legends about the Dragonborn, although I never expected..." While her lips were still open, the Breton practically shoved his tankard to her lips. She coughed and spat it out, then took a swing at the Breton.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "Now that's more like it! You've got fire in you."

"Eirik, are you going to...Eirik?" Mjoll asked.

But Eirik was leaning over his empty tankard. It was his second helping and already his world was starting to grow blurry. All he could hear was the Breton's laughter. He reached out and felt the cold steel of a tankard.

"Don't worry, Dragonborn," the Breton said. "You're in good hands. Have another."

"N-No, I couldn't..." Eirik said, his mouth lolling lazily open.

"Come now, you've barely had enough!" the Breton laughed. "You _can_ hold your liquor, can't you? I've had more than you and I'm fine. Come on, the staff is almost yours!"

Eirik reached for the tankard, though his head was swimming. His hand seemed to be moving slower than an old horker. He drank a little of the drink, then everything became a blur of opaqueness and distorted colors and half motions.

* * *

The next thing Eirik knew, he was waking up in someplace cold and windy. There was a soft, warm thing pressing gently against his face and he felt for a moment that he was once more with Lydia in the glade in Morthal. His head hurt worse than it had on the cart-ride to Helgen, the haft of an Imperial sword having stricken his head like the club of a giant. Slowly, through the poignant ache in the depths of his brain, Eirik pushed himself up and saw an olive-skinned Bosmeri woman sprawled out beneath him, her crimson hair covered with snow and both of her breasts exposed. He could tell that she was Bosmeri because she had softer ridges than Dunmer or Altmer, her skin was, of course, darker.

Almost nervously, he pushed himself off and looked about. He was on what looked like a cliff-edge before the sea. About him in the snow drifts were several empty bottles, something golden half-buried in the snow, and several other bodies lying about. Suddenly he heard a voice cry out in a loud exclamation of joy.

"By the Eight, what a night!" That was the voice of Marcurio. "I've never had this much fun since I came to this skeever-hole of a country!" He laughed aloud, then began feeling about and laughed again. "Oh, that was something!"

Eirik pushed himself up and began shaking off the snow. Nearby he saw another woman with dark hair, lying face down in the snow. Near at hand to this one, however, Eirik saw Mjoll pushing herself out of the snow. Her breastplate was gone and her shirt was torn down the center, revealing the cloth that bound her breasts. Eirik noticed that the cloth bulged somewhat more than Lydia's bosoms had, but Mjoll's hands quickly covered herself up as she saw Eirik awake.

"Where's my armor?" she asked grimly.

"How should I know?" Eirik asked.

"You should know," she replied. "You were the one trying to tear it off. You have quite a bit of explaining to do!"

"What happened?" he inquired again.

"I barely remember myself," Mjoll groaned. "That damn Breton must have put something in our drinks. I...I remember..." She rubbed her forehead, then looked at Eirik, then down at the Bosmer woman beside him, then shook her head.

"Marcurio!" Eirik shouted.

"Oi?" he called back.

"Any idea of what happened?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," the Imperial replied. "Although, from the looks of things, it was amazing! Three, Nord! Three! And I'm pretty sure all at once as well, though I'm not exactly sure how that's possible."

"Ugh, men," Mjoll said in disgust. "At least Aerin wasn't this disgustingly lusty."

"Not with women, at least," Marcurio jested.

Meanwhile, Eirik turned to the Bosmer who was now awake, distinct red eyes open, and looking up at him with a slavish expression on her face.

"Do you know what happened?" Eirik asked.

"Everything," she smiled.

"Would you mind telling me?" he asked again.

"Can I at least get dressed first?" she replied. "How you Nords can endure this cold half naked I'll never know!"

The Bosmer went about her business clothing herself while Mjoll sought out her breastplate in all of the snow. Marcurio, meanwhile, was not moving from where he lay. At length, however, the Bosmer woman told Eirik a little of what had happened. Mjoll also listened in, though Eirik noticed that she kept a respectable distance from both Eirik and the Bosmer.

"Well, it was late at night when three riders arrived at Haelga's Bunkhouse in Riften," she began. "It was you three. You..." She looked up at Eirik. "You were rambling like a madman, always shouting about Lydia and Mjoll and tearing down the Thieves Guild with your bare hands."

"Go on," Eirik urged.

"You ran into the Ratways, eager to destroy the Thieves Guild single-handed," the Bosmer continued. "You came back with a golden statue of Dibella. Then you took me by the hand and ran out to the stables, where you tossed me onto your horse and galloped off to this spot where..." She winked. "Well, if you don't remember what happened after that..."

"What about me?" Mjoll asked.

"He was most interested in pleasing you," the Bosmer said. "A little too much, if you ask me. That was why he went to destroy the Thieves Guild." She snorted. "But I can tell from your look that you've got something to lose. Don't worry, all he took from you was your armor. That was when the other one showed up."

"Which other one?" Mjoll asked.

"Her," the Bosmer pointed to the one still lying in the snow. "She came after us, followed us from Riften. Showed up just as you two were fighting over her armor. One of you hit her and then, well..." She smiled at Eirik. "You came after me."

"I think I've heard enough of this," Mjoll said icily. She then continued her search for the rest of her armor.

"Marcurio!" Eirik shouted. There was no response. He turned to the Bosmer. "Uh...I don't know how I can..."

"You've already paid," she replied. "You were insistent, but you paid upfront."

"Take my horse," Eirik said. "Or whatever horse it is. No need to pay me, I think we're done here."

"Until next time," the Bosmer woman said, winking at Eirik. He turned and made his way through the snowy drifts to where Marcurio lay. There he saw the Imperial wizard lying with three women: a Nord, a Redguard and a Khajiit.

"No, no," Marcurio replied. "Don't wake me, this-this is amazing."

"We have to go," Eirik said.

"Why?" he laughed. "We came where we wanted to."

"Huh?"

"He whispered to me something, that's all I remembered," Marcurio said. "He told me to go here. That's where we need to be: the middle of nowhere."

"Not nowhere," Eirik said, looking up. In the morning light, he saw an island somewhere off in the sea to the north with a line of smoke floating in the wind. "There's someone out there. Let's go there, it should be warmer there."

"Can we take them along with us?" Marcurio asked.

"No," Eirik said.

"Good," Mjoll added coldly. "It looks like a long swim through the cold Sea of Ghosts: just what you two need."

* * *

Eirik pulled Marcurio out of the snow, who them began pulling the women out of the snow where Marcurio had been laying. The Cyrodilian apologized for not staying longer with them and told them to find their way back to the nearest town. Eirik, meanwhile, made his way down the cliff-side and towards the shore. Behind him followed Mjoll, who was strapping her armor back on. Once they reached the shore, Marcurio finally joined them and made an audible shudder of disgust.

"What?" Eirik asked. "Never seen the ocean before?"

"No, that's not it," Marcurio replied with a heavy tone of condescension. "I just don't feel right about swimming in ice-cold water, that's all. Damn, if only I had a potion of water-walking. They're five hundred drakes a piece but only because they come in pretty fucking handy in a frigid place like this."

"It's not too late to turn back, you know," Eirik stated.

"I still haven't got my gold," Marcurio stated. "That bastard interrupted us while you were taking your time. By the way, where is your gold?"

Eirik felt on his belt and did not find his purse. He turned to run back up the hill to where he had woken, but found Mjoll walking towards them, with two things in her hands and a look of great disapproval on her face.

"You forgot these," she said, hanging first the bag to Eirik. The other thing was a golden statue of a woman clad in nothing but a skimpy skirt about the waist.

"Dibella," she said. "Goddess of beauty and patron of artists. From that girl's story, I take it you stole it from the Thieves Guild." She shook her head, but said nothing more.

"I think you should leave that behind first," Marcurio said. "It would only weigh you down out there." Eirik placed the statue in the snow, then began wading out into the water. "This is not going to be pleasant!"

Eirik was the first one walking out into the sea, which was as cold as a thousand knife-blades of ice pricking his skin at once. With a deep breath, he leaped into the waves and started pulling himself through the icy water as fast as he could. The cold numbed his limbs and the salty water stung his eyes and tongue as he accidentally swallowed it every few seconds. Yet he pushed forward, through the churning ice of the sea, where Yngol was lost in the voyage of the Five Hundred centuries ago. The water froze his fingers and the blocks of floating ice that he occasionally brushed up against were no better. He knew not if the others were following him, nor had he the time to look back and see: he knew that he had to go forward or forfeit his life in the cold black Nordic sea. His head was pounding even harder from the hangover of last night and the profound ache of his body in the icy water. Suddenly his lungs tasted air, cold, frigid air, but it was air again. There was something beneath his hands and feet besides water, but he was shivering too violently to think and slipped into the cold darkness once again.

* * *

Eirik's eyes opened after an eternity in darkness. He thought that he would see the face of Tsun, the golden-toothed guardian of the Whale-Bone bridge to Sovngarde. But that was reserved for the honored dead, not those who had frozen to death in the sea. Slowly his eyes opened and he saw himself inside what looked like a cave of snow and ice. Near at hand was a fire burning, whose light was cast upon a giant, squarish device of brazen metal. Near at hand, wrapped in heavy blankets, were Mjoll and Marcurio. Before them and between the fire and the massive block strode a man in a hooded robe, musing and muttering to himself endlessly. About the icy room, he could see a bookcase, a bed-roll, a lantern or two, and a bucket.

"Awake, are you?" the man asked. His voice revealed his age, as did the long gray beard poking its way out of the bottom of his hood. "Good, good. Things must not be lost which are lost to begin with."

"Huh?" Eirik coughed.

"He's been saying that since we arrived here," Marcurio said. "He saved us from the seas."

"Uh, thank you, good sir," Eirik said to the old man.

"Dig, Dwemer," the old man said, ignoring Eirik's statement. "Dig into the beyond. I'll know your lost unknown and rise to your depths!"

"Who are you, good elder?" Mjoll asked.

"No one," the old man shook his head. "A seeker of knowledge. Delver of the lost things. Some people called me Septimus, after the dynasty that created our glorious Empire."

"Septimus Signus?" Marcurio asked.

"You wrote that book," Eirik stated. "The one about the Elder Scrolls."

"Indeed," old Septimus replied giddily. "Absconded with the Empire, kept in the White-Gold Tower. Ha! The fools. They thought they gathered all the Elder Scrolls, but they only found the ones they saw, or _thought_ they saw, at least. But I found it, I did! A lost one, a forgotten one, a sequestered one."

"Where is it?" Eirik asked.

"Alas, I cannot go to it," Septimus shook his head. "Not poor Septimus. No, for I...I have arisen beyond its grasp."

"Are you alright?" Mjoll asked.

"Oh, yes," the old man said hastily. "I am well. I will be well. Well to be within the will inside the walls."

"So..." Eirik said hesitantly. "Where is it?"

"Here!" Septimus exclaimed.

"Here?" Marcurio asked, looking about in the room. "A rather odd place to keep an Elder Scroll."

"No, no, no no no no!" Septimus said. "Not _here_ here. Here!" He waved his arms about. "This plane: Nirn, Mundus, Tamriel, whatever you wish to call it. Nearby even, well, relatively speaking. Ha ha! Cosmologically, it's all nearby."

"This is ludicrous," Marcurio sighed.

"Can you help me or not?" Eirik asked.

"Hmm, one block lifts the other," the old man said, stroking his beard. He then burst into laughter. "Ah, yes. I'll give you what you want, yes. Poor Septimus will give what you want, in return for something...something...wonderful!"

"And what is that?" Eirik inquired.

"You see the Dwemer ruins?" Septimus asked. "A masterwork, the depths of their greatest knowings. Ah, poor old Septimus is wise among men, but an idiot child to even the dullest of the Dwemer."

"Typical Imperial bullshit," Eirik snorted.

"No no, this is for real, my friend," Septimus said. "Or as real as anything in Mundus can be. Ha ha! Still, the Dwemer were great, yes! They reached into the trans-mundane, beyond this plane and into the void. Perhaps they found what they were seeking among the stars, hmm? Perhaps _they_ are the new gods of the sky? Nevertheless, they left many good things behind, hmm? Useful tools and inventions."

"Machines of death, you mean?" Eirik asked.

"No!" three voices said at once. Eirik saw that both Mjoll and Marcurio had taken old Septimus' defense.

"The Dwemer were counted the wisest of all the races in Tamriel," Mjoll said.

"For once, I agree with you, Lioness," Marcurio added. "You know, for a Nord, you're cleverer than I thought."

"But the Dwemer were the most clever, hmm?" Septimus interrupted. "They found things, things that no mortal has ever discovered since then. Ways to read the Elder Scrolls, hmm? But, of course, one does not simply walk into the Dwemer ruins and find such a priceless gem, hmm? No, a foolish thing to think. Mustn't think that, must we? No!"

"Then where is it?" Eirik asked.

Septimus seemed practically excited as he held his lantern up to the level of his eyes and told them the secret.

"There is a place," he said. "In the deep places of Mundus, where it is said the Dwemer sought out the greatest secrets of the earth. 'Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept.' In the common tongue, it is called Blackreach."

Only the cold wind howled through the icy cave once those words were spoken. Some, at least, knew of Blackreach, and feared its mention. Many stories roamed about it, and Eirik had heard his fair share of some of those legends. Needless to say, he wasn't interested in seeing if any of them were true. Suddenly, old Septimus began chanting, half to himself and half to them, some words of an old rhyme.

_Under deep  
Below the dark  
The hidden keep  
Tower Mzark_

"Hmm?" he laughed. "Alftand, the point of puncture. Of first entry, of the tapping. Delve to its limits and the darkness lies beyond."

"Alftand is less than half a day's walk south from the College," Marcurio said. "Shouldn't take us long to find it, even for you Nords."

"Wait, seeker!" Septimus said, approaching Eirik with eagerness in his eyes. "Before you go, know this: not all can enter there. Only poor Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock. Two things I have for you, two shapes: one edged, one round. The round one for tuning. Dwemer music is subtle and soft, and needed to open the cleverest gates." He gave to Eirik a sphere made of the same bronze-like Dwemer metal that he had seen in Mzinchaleft and on the giant cube behind Septimus.

"The edged one..." he began, presenting a square device as big as a brick. "A lexicon, for inscribing. To us, a hunk of metal. To the Dwemer, a library full of knowledge. Only...it's empty." He placed it in Eirik's hands. "Finds Mzark and its sky dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube."

Eirik looked at Mjoll and Marcurio. She averted her eyes from his gaze and he knew all too well for what reason. Marcurio, on the other hand, made a few gestures with his hands, indicating that old Septimus was clearly out of his mind.

"Are you sure about this?" Eirik asked.

"Trust old Septimus," the old man replied. "He knows you can know."

With these two seemingly useless treasures in hand, Eirik turned to Mjoll and Marcurio once again.

"He's clearly lost it," Marcurio said. "And what a pity, that it had to happen to such a brilliant, enlightened mind."

"Nevertheless, did you understand...anything of what he said?"

"Yes, actually," Mjoll said. "Most of it was rhymes, but I think the truth was there."

"Alftand, find the secret underground cavernous world of Blackreach," Marcurio said. "Look for a tower I've never heard of and transcribe the Elder Scroll for him. Seems simple enough."

Eirik turned to Mjoll, who said nothing once again. He then looked back to Marcurio, who had his hand raised.

"There is one thing I would like to recommend before we go, if you don't mind," he said.

"What is it?"

"No more swimming in the freezing ocean," Marcurio said. "Lorkhan's balls, you practically killed us all out there!"

"Well, then, wise one, how do you intend to return to the mainland?" Eirik asked.

"Easy," he said with a smile. "We walk."

* * *

Once they essayed at last to leave, they followed Marcurio out of the snowy cavern. The room with the giant sphere was at the bottom of what looked like a long, vertical tunnel of ice with a path winding along its outer edge. Up this winding path Marcurio led the two Nords, till they came to a makeshift wooden door that was all that separated them from the outside. On the other side, they found themselves on an island floating somewhere off the coast of northern Skyrim. The wind was blowing wildly and there was snow flung high and fast upon its crest, scratching their faces and blinding their eyes. Nevertheless, Marcurio espied a tall pillar of stone rising up out of the sea afar off southwards, towards the coast.

"See that?" he called out to the others, who huddled behind him, still wrapped in the blankets Septimus had given them. "That's the College of Winterhold. My guess is that we're off the coast."

"Great," Eirik stated. "So how are we getting back to land by walking?"

"Stand back and prepare to be amazed," Marcurio said confidently as he strode towards the water's edge. Nearby, at least ten feet outward, was an iceberg floating close to the island. With a commanding shout, Marcurio held out his hands and a sheet of whitish, opaque ice crystals erupted off the surface of the water, most of them crisscrossing in long, pointed stalactites. Marcurio then stepped out and slowly walked across the wall of ice that had grown between the land and the iceberg. The ice crystals cracked beneath his feet and groaned under his weight, but they held until he was all the way over. He then turned back to them and winked.

"Well, are you coming?"

The two looked at the icy bridge in awe, then Mjoll made her way across the bridge. It held under her weight, which was a little more than Marcurio's, considering the heavy armor she wore, and soon she too was on the large iceberg, leaving only Eirik on the farthest side. With a wary look at the icy bridge, he ran across, feeling it crack beneath his heavier footfalls. He reached the iceberg with his boots getting wet but nothing else. They then turned about and looked across the strait that would lead them back to shore. It was a long way and there were long stretches of at least two or three bow-shots in length where there were no ice-plates, only cold black water. Marcurio grimaced at this, but then held out his hands and spoke the words of command once again.

About an hour had passed by the time the three of them were finally upon land that did not move, though it was still clad in frozen snow and freezing, slippery ice. As Eirik looked for his booty of last night's debauchery, he saw Mjoll stand off from him and Marcurio.

"Looks like things aren't going well between you two," he stated.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Eirik asked. "Gods above, you're about as bad as Crixus."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied. "Nevertheless, I'd say even a blind man could see the animosity growing between you and the Lioness, especially after last night. If you plan on keeping her with you, you should really talk to her."

"And what do you know about friendship?" Eirik retorted.

"More than you, it seems," he said with a smile. "Come now, let's not spend any more time arguing. We've got a Dwemer ruin to find!"

For the rest of that afternoon, they walked along the northern coasts of the hold of Winterhold, looking about for any signs of a Dwemer ruin. Marcurio, however, did not look. He knew where he was going and said so in no uncertain terms. Even when Eirik, the eldest member of the group, tried to assert that it was _his_ responsibility to find Alftand and the Elder Scroll, Marcurio retorted with his usual Cyrodilic cheek.

"Stupid Nord, you'd be lost without me," he said. "Swimming through the cold ocean. You know, if you had just asked me first off, I could have used that spell and spared us all the risk of freezing to death in the Sea of Ghosts!"

"I didn't know you were capable of such things," Eirik said.

"Of course you didn't," Marcurio retorted. "Because you're afraid of magic, just like the rest of your people. Still, it's magic that saved you here and it will be magic that will save you in the depths of Blackreach."

They walked on in silence once again. Above their heads, the skies seemed to echo the dead, empty mood of the company. The sun was hidden beneath a wreck of dark clouds that promised snow this far north: blinding sheets of razor-sharp ice-pellets in a blizzard, blown inland by the northern wind. Far above, they heard a roar echoing in the hills. Eirik gripped the Bloodskal blade in his hands, for fear that it might be another dragon. He had barely escaped his encounter with the last dragon with this priceless weapon, as his final blow had nearly wrenched the blade out of his hands and sent it hurling down the ravine into the sea with the dragon. Instead, Divines be praised, it was thrown into the bole of a tree on the ground level. This was advantageous, as Eirik would have great need of a sword in the darkness of Alftand.

Once more he looked over at Mjoll, just out of hand's reach and still bearing a grim expression on her face. He had kept the matter quiet long enough. Sheathing his sword, he walked a step closer to her and began to talk with her.

"Do you remember back at old Septimus' camp?" he began. "You seemed both eager and wary of going into a Dwemer ruin again."

"I believe you know why," she replied icily.

"Uh, that's something that I'm still struggling with," he spoke up, a thought coming to mind.

"What is that?" Mjoll asked.

Eirik came closer to her, and spoke then in a lower voice, so that what he said would, hopefully, not be overheard by Marcurio.

"Your secret," he said. "I mean, you told me that you were to be invincible, unharmed by sword or spear or shaft until the day you died, right?"

"Aye," she replied.

"Well, then, why did you despair of life in Mzinchaleft?" he asked. "Were you not invincible then also?"

Mjoll seemed rather uncomfortable with this answer and said nothing. They walked on in silence before, at last, Mjoll turned to him and spoke.

"The gods ordain the time of our lives and our deaths," she said. "I was in such pain in Mzinchaleft as I had never felt before, but it was more than pain. There was a weakness of both mind and will, brought about by being underground for many hours and away from the light. In that hour, I felt that this was my appointed time."

"Hmm," he mused.

"Now was there something else you wanted to know or are you busy with your new friend?" she asked.

"No, I wanted to talk to you about..." he began, but his voice faltered. "Well, you know..."

"Last night, you mean," she said.

"Uh, yes."

"I don't believe there's anything more to be said," she said plainly. "Yours is not the life which I intend to lead."

"What?" he asked.

She halted, gazing at him with her piercing, amber eyes. "I had thought of you as an honorable man," she began. "A man of principle and good moral standing, who put others before himself. Now I see that you're no different than Crixus or Marcurio."

"Why?" he asked. "Because of one night?"

"I am aware that drinking has that effect on people," she said. "But..."

"But what?"

Mjoll's seductively large lips quivered in anger as she spoke again, her words slow, measured and venomous.

"You...tried...to fuck me!" she hissed.

"I-I'm sorry," Eirik returned. "I can't remember anything."

"Granted, I don't remember much of it either," she said. "But the evidence was plain enough. You tore off my breastplate, then ruined my shirt to get me naked and sprawled out beneath you like that Bosmer whore."

"I wasn't acting properly," Eirik stated. "Look, I'm sorry..."

"Sorry that you tried to take advantage of me?" she replied.

"Yes," he said grimly. "I'm sorry for that."

"And that's it?" she asked. "Just a simple 'I'm sorry for that' to pardon what you did last night?"

"I didn't harm you, did I?" he asked, the fear in his voice. He had no clue as to what had happened the night before and could not tell if he had done only what Mjoll had said or even worse.

"How can I ever trust you again?" she asked. "After seeing you lying with a harlot!" Eirik said nothing. "And then you stole from the Thieves Guild, repaying one evil with another evil."

"I'm sorry," Eirik said grimly. Mjoll did not reply. "Please, say something."

"What is there to say?" she asked. "I should leave you now to go into Alftand on your own with your pig of a friend!"

"Oi!" a voice shouted.

Eirik turned from Mjoll and saw Marcurio, a long ways off, standing on the top of a hill of snow. He surged through the snowy drifts as fast as his feet could carry him and was soon standing toe to toe with Marcurio.

"Stopping to enjoy the sights, are we?" he asked. "Well, if you want a sight, behold this!"

Before them was a wide valley, with many tall cliffs of ice upon all sides, leading down into the sea below. Near at hand was a shelf of ice jutting out from the main girth of the ice cliffs. Upon this shelf were built a series of towers. Three of them at least were still standing, but some of them had toppled down. From the looks of things, this was the sight of an excavation, as there were rope-bridges connecting each of the towers and their levels.

"Is that it?" Eirik asked.

"Aye, that's it," Marcurio said. "Alftand. Are we going in already or do you two want to enjoy the sights again?"

"No," Eirik said, shaking his head. "We're going in."

"Good," he said. "I hate long waits, I get bored very easily. Oh, before we go in, a friendly reminder: try not to set off any traps, will you? The Dwemer certainly were no fools when it came to protecting their ruins." He looked over at Eirik and smirked. "Afraid, are you? Big bad Nord afraid of a haunted ruin?"

"Just shut the fuck up," Eirik replied grumpily, still upset from his talk with Mjoll.

"If these ruins frighten you," Marcurio said, wrapping his arm around Eirik's shoulder. "Take comfort in the knowledge that I am here."

* * *

Eirik and Marcurio made their way down the side of the hill and onto the ice shelf, where they sought out the rope-bridges which led into a tunnel in the side of the shelf. It looked like a mine-shaft burrowed into the side of an icy wall, but there would be nothing of value to mine here, at least so they thought. They also noticed that it was very dark inside, which sent Marcurio into a complaining mood.

"You did bring torches, didn't you?" he asked. "Or did they get wet when you decided to swim the Sea of Ghosts?"

"Can you not be quiet?!" Eirik retorted.

"What's eating you?" Marcurio asked.

"Last night."

"Last night?" Marcurio laughed. "That's hardly a reason to be angry."

"Mjoll is angry at me," he said. "And she has every right to be: I was wrong."

"Not that I have anything better to do than listen to your sob stories," Marcurio said with blatant disinterest. "I think we should focus on the task at hand. Look on the ground beneath your feet."

Marcurio whispered something and a ball of whitish light appeared in his hands, illuminating the ground before their feet and on the walls for at least a good fifteen feet outwards. Directly before them were the remains of a camp-fire, with several crates which, they guessed, had been used for seats. The tunnel then branched off in two directions, with one of them blocked off by a cave-in of stones and the other leading onward and deeper still. Thither they went until the path split again, with the straight-forward path leading to a dead end with a few barrels, what had probably been a storage room, and the right-hand path continuing into the ice. At the cross-roads of the second splintering of the ways, however, there was another ruined camp-fire, littered with abandoned bed-rolls and a few odd items here and there, but it was also drenched in an even darker token: blood.

"This is a grim scene," Eirik stated. "Whose blood do you think it is?"

"Clearly human," Marcurio said. "This couldn't have been too long ago, as the blood's still red." Holding the floating ball of magical light aloft, he threw it outwards and down the snowy tunnel, while he conjured another one swiftly. With quick footsteps, they walked over to where the ball of light had halted. The tunnel snaked off to the left, going down a pace or so until it leveled out at a wooden support platform, then continued on down into the ice. The walls and floor of the tunnel, however, were still streaked with blood.

"What do you suppose happened?" Eirik asked.

"Steady," Marcurio replied. "With a master of magic at your side, you have nothing to worry about."

"Rather confident in yourself, aren't you?" a voice asked from behind. Eirik and Marcurio both turned about to meet the newcomer.

"Mjoll!" Eirik exclaimed in surprise. Upon seeing that it was only the Lioness, Marcurio turned his attention to the tunnel. Eirik, however, was more interested in her. "What are you doing here? I thought you had decided to leave."

"I have," she replied. "And I will, but right now, I want to see this journey through, to whatever end."

"Shh!" Marcurio hissed. "Quiet, listen."

For a good long moment, they all stood quiet in the snowy tunnel. The gentle howl of the wind outside could be heard, though they were deep enough that it affected them little. Suddenly they heard something echoing farther down the tunnel. It was a voice, a keen, clever voice that could only belong to one of the peoples of Tamriel.

"Where is it?" the voice echoed. "I know you were trying to keep it for yourself, J'zhar. You always try to keep it for yourself! You hid it, J'zhar, I know you did! Where is it this time? Where did you hide the skooma?"

"Khajiit," Marcurio whispered. "We won't have much hope of sneaking up on him, not with you two being louder than a dragon."

"He could be farther down the tunnel," Mjoll said. "Still, be cautious."

With carefully measured steps, they made their way down the tunnel as it wound about through the snow and ice. At last they came to a wide arch of stone, capped with the familiar brazen metal that glowed in the light of Marcurio's spell. Mjoll was the first to speak, in a whistle of admiration.

"The ancient Dwemer," she began. "Were masters of subterranean construction. These ruins show only a fraction of their capabilities."

The others said nothing, though Eirik saw that Marcurio also looked upon the gloom-shrouded Dwemer hall beyond the arch with equally rapt attention. At last they passed under the arch and found that there was water flowing on the floor. It made their footsteps splash as they walked down the long ramp into another chamber. Once they reached the bottom, Marcurio held out his hands to bring them to a halt.

"Look down," he said.

At this they all looked down. Before them lay a spidery machine made of the same brazen Dwemer metal that capped the stones of the tunnel. Nearby they heard the hiss of steam, but no other sound. No gears grinding or machines releasing more of the same. Marcurio kicked the spider worker gently with his boot, but it made no response.

"Damn machines," Eirik said scathingly.

"That would be animunculus," Marcurio stated. "There's a difference between what the Dwemer built and a machine."

"In that you're wrong," Eirik replied. "I've fought these before. They're mindless machines, damned to endlessly perform tasks for masters who have long since departed this world."

"Wrong again!" Marcurio said smugly, turning to Eirik. "What, did you run about blindly in said Dwemer ruin? Is that where you got your knowledge of them?" He snorted. "They're machines, yes, but it's more complicated than that."

"What's more complicated?" Eirik asked. "It's metal, it has no mind. It's a machine."

"Wrong," Marcurio retorted. "They have some connection to what Conjurers call a 'soul', and therefore are capable, in their own way, of being harnessed by skilled Conjurers and their energies utilized."

"Typical sorcerer double-talk," Eirik stated.

"Typical Nordic ignorance," Marcurio snorted, as he turned and continued down the hall. Eirik and Mjoll followed after him. "Here, let me explain it in a way that your tiny mind can comprehend. When you 'encountered' Dwemer animunculi before, how did they respond?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were they active when you entered or not?"

Eirik sighed, already feeling nauseous from the thick, stuffy air. "Well, I do recall that the halls were empty. It wasn't until we passed by a large Dwemer pipe or some kind of chamber that they appeared."

"Exactly," Marcurio said triumphantly. "Now, answer me this: how can a mindless machine know exactly where you are and at what time to most effectively deploy their battle chassis?"

"Huh?"

"Ha ha!" Marcurio laughed. "You should see the expression on your face, like a dumbfounded ape!"

"I grow tired of your insults!" Eirik threatened.

"And I grow tired of your stupidity," the Imperial retorted. "If I left you behind, it would be like leading a child into a wolf's den and then running away, leaving her there to die."

"Do you really think I'm that helpless?" Eirik retorted.

"I think he's right," Mjoll asid.

"You're siding with him?" he asked, turning around.

"I've been in these ruins before," she said. "They're beautiful...and dangerous as well. We need someone who knows what he's doing, and obviously he does. Remember what you told me about the chauri in Mzinchaleft?"

Eirik's countenance fell as it seemed though he had lost the argument as well as Mjoll's respect for him. They continued on in silence, until they came to a place with a stone table and a door barred with steel bars that cut off access. Beyond, they could hear the rumbling of gears and the hissing of steam. Beyond the portcullis of the door, the Dwemer machinations were still active. Near at hand, however, the table was strewn with more of the Dwemer spider workers, which lay dissected and in pieces. Eirik pocketed a book of research notes, which he hoped would possibly give him some insight later on.

"Wait!" Marcurio cried out. "There's another way over here."

They turned about and saw another tunnel leading on into the darkness. It was then that they realized that it had suddenly become dark, pitch black even. The soudn of steel clanging loudly against stone was heard and Marcurio groaned. Something was alive in the darkness around them. Eirik drew out his sword and he heard Grimsever being drawn behind him. Suddenly there was a flash of blinding light and then a smell of burning steel, like the rich, acrid odor of a forge. Then there was a quiet glow as something began burning. It scuttled about, sending the orange light of fire flickering about, until another blast of light caught it aflame again, where it finally ceased moving and came to a halt. A small ball of light was cast again and they were flooded with Marcurio's candlelight. What they saw at his feet was one of the Dwemer spider workers, which they guessed had come from the tunnel, alerted by Marcurio's presence. But both of them were amazed at the speed with which Marcurio had dispatched it.

"Do you now see?" he asked. "If you two had come in here without me, it would have taken a lot longer and probably delivered a few good hits on you."

"I still prefer my sword," Eirik said.

"Ha!" Marcurio laughed. "Why settle for mindlessly hacking and stabbing your foes when you can roast them alive with a gout of arcane fire?"

* * *

**(AN: You have no idea how much I hate Dwemer ruins, particularly writing Dwemer ruins. In the game I die so often and frequently in them, which naturally creates an aversion to going into them. Furthermore, those places, imo, seem very out of place with the rest of _Skyrim_. I mean, at first we're in a world of swords and magic, Viking-like Stormcloak rebels and the Romish Empire of Cyrodiil, there are elves and dragons and it's all mystical and epic _Lord of the Rings_-ish. But then we go into a Dwemer ruin and there's steam, cogs, running water, hell, even electricity and robotics. Aside from just plain racism [which the Dwemer definitely showed to the Snow Elves], why hasn't this technology been shared with the rest of Tamriel? But apart from that, the whole steam-punk atmosphere of the Dwemer ruins takes away from the epic scope of the land conflict and seems really out of place. But that's just me, because it seems that everyone [Mjoll and Marcurio included] loves the Dwemer. Who doesn't, they're the atheists of Tamriel, complete with genocidal tendencies, slavery and all other 'good' things, right?)**

**(So, naturally, I'm glad that this chapter is _finally_ done! Unfortunately, there's still at _least_ THREE more Dwemer ruins in the future chapters. But, since this was a long chapter, you've got plenty to review. Yay, Marcurio! I've given him something of a back-story, which is why he's in Winterhold rather than Riften [we'll see about that later], and, as this chapter was already getting so boring, I threw Sanguine into the picture. No, it won't be, as Doug "the ex-Nostaglia Critic" Walker calls it, a "big-lipped alligator moment", because it actually _will_ have some weight on the rest of the story and, as you can see, Mjoll is still very upset about it. I did also change the outcome, so that it's not just a night of drunken debauchery at the Temple of Dibella, because I do have a time-line that I'm trying to keep to, and dragging our heroes ALL the way to Markarth would be counterproductive to what I've already planned out. That might still happen, though it would have to be carefully orchestrated as they would be more wary of Sanguine's presence now.)**

**(I am aware, also, that I was very liberal with the lore the last time I went into a Dwemer ruin in this story. I've tried to stay a bit closer, and even had Marcurio make that comment about the Dwemer animunculi, in response to _Cyrus_' review that Dwemer machines aren't "mindless robots" as I said before. As, in said previous chapter, fire is useful against the animunculi, that makes the need for a wizard keen with Destruction spells very great. I gave him the Wall of Frost spell because we didn't have any potions of water-walking on hand, no boats, and I do try to make this less unrealistic [i can't say more realistic because then somebody, probably you, _Cyrus_, will point out some outlandish thing from one of the fight scenes]. Therefore I couldn't risk another awful swimming through the Sea of Ghosts, so I decided that he would show his usefulness and create an ice bridge using that spell. Seems legit enough, I think. Wow, that was one long author's note! Longer than any of the ones from my other long stories, which is quite something. Any way, review and comment and I'll try to get another chapter [and shorter at that] out a.s.a.p.)**


	51. Blackreach

**(AN: -sigh- That last chapter, I had hoped it to be most of the adventure in Alftand, but as it turned out, even that would have been too long. So I cut the chapter short at a merciful nine thousand words [actually, the last chapter's word count was a little bit..."over 9000!"] Lol, obscure internet references.)**

**(Yay, I'm glad reviews are still there. Well, the end of the semester is coming up and jobs as impossible to find in my area as they are and my band on hiatus, it looks like I'll have more time to devote to this story. Lol, _Cyrus_, first you were pushing a rape back-story for Mjoll and now you're quick to say "rape is bad, mkay?" Lol, I'm not saying it isn't bad, I just found that to be an odd reversal. Eirik got only one because he's not a complete man-whore [we'll leave how Marcurio managed three at a time to your imagination, lol]. Well, you could argue that one huscarl and a Bosmer harlot [can't say any more, spoilers] do make him kind of a man-whore, but it's mostly because Marcurio, like Crixus, isn't bound by as many moral principles. Hell, I would even say that Marcurio has fewer, since he's just a mercenary whereas Crixus actually believes the whole spiel with the Empire and what was written in "The Talos Mistake". And as for _le fou_, hmmm...I figured that he ran into the Ratways, grabbed whatever was nearest and took off. Since the Thieves Guild pretty much owns the town [Maven's in charge, she's friendly/connected within the Thieves Guild, so obviously there will be less of the puny hindrances they had before], the Warrens might not be as heavily defended as before. They will be _now_, though.)**

**(So yeah, here we are, still in the realm of the Dwemer. I'll try to get us out of here by this chapter, hopefully.)**

* * *

**Blackreach**

After the encounter with the Dwemer spider worker, they made their way onward into the darkness, with Marcurio's conjured orb the only light to illuminate the darkened tunnel and guide their path. They went onward through the tunnels, which were more or less deserted save for a few spider workers still functioning. They were no match for the magically-adept Marcurio and his powerful destruction spells: as Eirik himself had learned from Mzinchaleft, Dwemer constructs were weak to fire and his blasts of arcane fire came in handy more often than not. Which is not to say that they had no action at all: one of the little bastards was quick and scurried away from Marcurio, but did not last long under the pounding blows from the Bloodskal blade.

The blood, however, was still shown on all of the walls as they made their way deeper and deeper into Alftand. Marcurio called for another halt and shoved them up against the wall of the tunnel ere it ran downward. They heard scratching and sniffing just beyond and things being tossed about furiously. Suddenly the sound of moving objects halted and the sniffing was heard.

"Someone's here," the Khajiit voice from before whispered, then sniffed again. "Another pale-skinned smooth back, I think. Searching for food, eh? Ah, but this one smells different. Not trapped here with us, I think."

"Shit," Marcurio hissed through his teeth. "I told you Khajiit were excellent trackers."

In a matter of moments, a giant fur-covered thing jumped upon Marcurio, wrestling him to the ground. It railed away at him with its bare hands, though those were weapons enough in the hands of the Khajiit, dangerous man-high feline creatures native to the land of Elsweyr in the far south. Their finger-nails were sharp claws that could rip open a man's stomach in mere seconds.

But Eirik would not stand by and let Marcurio be gutted by the drug-crazed Khajiit. With his bare hands, he seized him from behind and attempted to hurl him off against the wall. It worked, up until the Khajiit realized he was being attacked and turned on Eirik. The noise of bony claws scratching against his armor stung his ears more than the Khajiit's filthy hair stung his nostrils. But he had to maintain a hold on the Khajiit, or he would attack him in turn. He punched the Khajiit's cat-like face, it recoiled but was not severely harmed, save for a bit of matted blood against the corner of his mouth. He reached for his seax, but the Khajiit was fast and he could barely keep the claws from ripping off his face. However, Eirik was not completely defenseless against the Khajiit. Being bigger and physically stronger than Marcurio or the fur-clad Khajiit, he was able to roll about, until he had slammed the Khajiit against the wall. He kicked the Khajiit and it curled up, spitting blood out of his mouth.

"Stand down," Mjoll said, aiming Grimsever's point at the neck of the Khajiit. "We don't want to kill you."

"Lies!" the Khajiit hissed. "All of it! You're hiding the skooma, I know it's here somewhere!"

"He's going through withdrawals," Marcurio said, massaging the side of his neck, where the Khajiit's hands had seized. "I've seen this far too often in Riften. We should just kill him now, it's the merciful thing to do."

"What?" Mjoll exclaimed. "He wouldn't even be doing this to us if he wasn't on skooma. We should at least give him a second chance to redeem his ways."

"Redeem his ways?" Eirik spoke up, pointing the Bloodskal blade at the Khajiit. "People say the Khajiit are _only_ thieves and skooma dealers, and yet here they are, high on skooma and who knows what else? We should put an end to his suffering."

"Right," Marcurio said, hands raising into a position to cast a spell.

"No!" Eirik interjected. "I'll give him an honorable death, not burned alive by one of your spells."

"I can't let you do that," Mjoll interjected, bringing Grimsever to fend off Eirik's sword.

"If we let him go, in this state, what will stop him from attacking us in turn?" Eirik asked.

"He will see our generosity," Mjoll said. "And choose to change his ways."

"Still, our greatest threat is that he won't," Marcurio said. "If we..."

"Maybe we should stop talking about him like he's not here!" Mjoll exclaimed, then turned to the Khajiit and knelt down. "Hello? Who are you?"

"Fuck you, smooth back!" the Khajiit spat, spitting in Mjoll's face.

"Do you want to repeat that again?" Eirik threatened, pressing the point of his blade closer to the Khajiit's neck.

"Just like you pale-skins," hissed the Khajiit. "Kill those who aren't like you in the dark places, so that no one..." He coughed. "...no one sees your crimes. And you won't even dare to fight me single-handed? I spit on all of you...and all of your ancestors!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Marcurio asked. "You attacked us, and unprovoked, I might add!"

"Your silver tongue...won't save you, Imperial!"

"This is pointless," Eirik groaned.

"No," Mjoll said, turning back to the Khajiit. "Please, we mean you no harm: we're looking for something deeper in the ruins. If you want to help us..."

"Hmm?" the Khajiit asked inquisitively. "Do they have skooma?"

"No, we don't have any of that poisonous bile," Mjoll shook her head.

"Then you have nothing I want!" the Khajiit sneered.

"Very well," Mjoll returned. "Then we'll let you go your way in peace."

He spat in her direction again. "I spit on your mercy, Nord!"

"Do you see what I mean?" Eirik asked.

"Go, then," she said firmly. "We don't want to hurt you, but we will defend ourselves if you attack us again." She pointed towards the way they had come and told him the way to return to the surface. "Winterhold is within a few hours march of here, you should fare well." The Khajiit did not answer.

"Well?" Mjoll asked again. "Will you promise not to attack us if we leave you?" The Khajiit's head nodded slightly. "See? That wasn't too hard, was it?"

"Just leave me alone," he hissed. "I don't need your pity."

One by one, they turned and went their own way, eager to be on their way. Eirik chanced to cast his eyes behind him and saw the Khajiit running towards Mjoll, axe in hand. With a cry of "Down!", he drew out the Bloodskal blade and swung it at the Khajiit. The blow was wide, but the wave of energy struck the Khajiit hard and sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Attack us from behind, will you?" he asked, approaching him with sword drawn. "And you call _us_ cowards?"

"Do it, then, smooth back!" sneered the Khajiit, throwing away his ax. "Strike down an unarmed Khajiit, like your precious Ulfric Stormcloak killed your own High King!"

At this, Marcurio and Mjoll saw a strange gleam in Eirik's eyes as he took a deep breath, his eyes aimed intently at the Khajiit.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

The Khajiit went flying down the hall, striking the snowy wall at the far-side of the tunnel. Eirik then turned to the others: Marcurio nodded silently, but Mjoll kept his gaze.

"He was going to stab you in the back," he said. "I had to do something."

"So you shouted him apart?" she replied.

"Not apart," Eirik retorted. "And not a mortal wound. He should at least be out of our way for a long while."

Quietly, they went on their way into the darkness of Alftand. None of them spoke, but Eirik saw that Mjoll was hanging her head as though in shame.

* * *

After the encounter with the Khajiit, the three of them encountered nothing but a few Dwemer contraptions. These, however, were easily dispatched by Marcurio's skill with fire, which melted their metal. They said very little throughout the trek, for they were ever wary of the grinding of gears or the hiss of steam from the Dwemer pipes and machines. At any moment, another defensive machine would appear and attempt to halt their advance. It didn't take much to defeat them, though they were difficult. The tunnels wound on for an eternity. For certain, Mzinchaleft was nothing compared to this. The darkness was now starting to tell on them all: they were jumping at the slightest shuffle or fall of stones behind them. They wanted dearly for the grinding of machines to finally be over, for it masked the approach of anything well in the darkness.

Many hours had passed in the deep halls of Alftand, which seemed to be leading them deeper and deeper, as though to take them into the very heart of Lorkhan itself. Though they knew it not, it was actually darkening in the world outside, as Morndas the nineteenth day of Frostfall was coming to a close. This deep, however, where the light of sun, moons or stars never came, there was nothing to discern whether or not day was come or not. As they were all on edge, every mile underground they went seemed to last an eternity, until it seemed as though they would be stuck within this forsaken Dwemer tomb-like ruin for all time.

At last, the dense, hot, stuffy air became cool as a gentle breeze floated down upon their faces. The walls of the tunnels vanished on either side of them and the sound of grinding gears also became faint and almost nonexistent. It was then that they, ears sharpened by the lack of light, thought they heard shuffling, which died down the moment they stopped walking. Marcurio cast his magic ball of light to illuminate the room, but there was suddenly heard the shuffling sound in great numbers.

"That's not good," he said.

Behind him, Mjoll and Eirik drew their weapons. As Eirik looked around at the shadows, shrinking before Marcurio's Candlelight spell, he saw that the young sorcerer was standing before a pool of blood. Upon closer examination, he saw that it was a human body, with streaks of blood upon the floor as though it had been dragged here. Its face was so disfigured that he could not guess whether it had been a man or a woman. But the stench that hit his nostrils as he approached the body was all too familiar.

"Listen..." he whispered.

One by one, they all halted in the gloom, listening intently. At last they heard it, slow and slavering in the darkness: the sound of creatures centuries dumb groaning in their torment, shuffling with naked feet upon cold tiles, scratching with clawed hands the hard stones about them.

"Falmer!" Mjoll hissed.

"Defend yourselves," Eirik said, raising the Bloodskal blade into battle position while Mjoll joined Marcurio and him around the body.

One of the Falmer ran forward, practically on all fours with one hand hanging free with a hideous sword clutched in its claws. Marcurio held out his hands and sent a rush of fire at the Falmer, who balked at the heat more than the flash of light. Eirik, however, was quick to hack off the Falmer's head, which hit the floor with a sickening squelch. The Nord turned and saw a horde of Falmer crawling towards them from out of the darkness.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

A wave of unrelenting force coursed out of Eirik's mouth. He could see the pebbles upon the floor flying about in every direction from the power of his Thu'um, but his anger rose as he saw the Falmer before him scurry away just in time as the current of force crashed harmlessly against the farthest wall.

"Cover me, Nords!" Marcurio said as he began waving his hands about over the floor.

"What in Talos' name are you doing?" Eirik asked.

"I'm making a rune spell," Marcurio said. "I've never tried one before, so keep these filthy Falmer off my back."

Eirik walked towards the nearest Falmer, heaving the Bloodskal blade back behind his back and bringing it down upon the Falmer's bald head. It leaped aside, but the blast of the blade's crimson energy lanced out and caught one behind it in the stomach. Eirik followed it up, but was suddenly shoved face-first into the hard, stone floor as a Falmer jumped on him from behind. Fingers like iron clawed at his back, searching for his neck: flesh was torn and something began to pool underneath Eirik's nostrils.

With a loud cry, the Falmer went flying off of Eirik's back as Mjoll, unseen by him, threw the Falmer off and ran it through with Grimsever. Eirik was barely back on his feet when another Falmer leaped at him, with an ax that looked no better than a scythe. He barely had enough time to hold up the Bloodskal blade to defend himself: the curved ax-head came within inches of piercing his face. Obviously, a great-sword would not be an adequate weapon against such an opponent.

"_Yol!_" he shouted in a strained voice.

The gout of fire directly in the Falmer's face sent it away, howling and clawing at its face in agony: its ax it had dropped in the confusion. Eirik swung the sword down and took off the Falmer's head in one clean swipe.

"There!" Marcurio explained. "Now, let's just let these thick-headed mongrels come and try this!"

"I hope..." Eirik groaned, looking over his shoulder. "That it's something useful!"

"Just don't step in it!" Marcurio shouted as he sent a fire-ball to his left, knocking another Falmer to the ground.

"You better do something!" Mjoll exclaimed from the other side. "We're being surrounded!"

"Eirik, clear us a path, will you?" Marcurio asked.

With a shout, Eirik leaped into the ranks of the Falmer, swinging his blade right and left. Waves of crimson energy blasted the Falmer back right and left, until there was a clear path through them. Mjoll and Marcurio ran after him, when suddenly the room exploded behind them. One of the Falmer had stepped on the fire rune and set at least five of them on fire. It was not enough and they were in _their_ territory: more would be coming.

"Well, I'll say one thing for you Nords," Marcurio commented. "You weren't lying when you spoke of the Falmer."

"Who thinks we lie?" Eirik asked.

"The elf-kin known as 'Y.R.'," Marcurio panted. "The one who wrote the first edition of the _Pocket Guide to the Empire_ about Skyrim."

"I spit on him!" Eirik said, spitting something red on the ground.

"Gods above!" Mjoll exclaimed, approaching Eirik.

"I'll survive," Eirik shrugged off, still feeling uncomfortable looking Mjoll in the eyes.

"Come on," Marcurio said. "Lets put some distance between us and the Falmer."

* * *

They ran on for what seemed like an eternity in the darkness. Marcurio's candlelight spell was enough to keep their path well lit, as least as far as the next three steps, but it showed little else unless the young Imperial put all of his focus into the spell, which meant that it would probably fade quicker than usual. From the little that they did catch, they were steadily going downward. After the encounter with the Falmer, they passed down a little-used pass filled with the remains of Dwemer sentries and spider-workers. The close tunnels then opened up into a wide, long pit with a winding staircase that led even farther down. As they were reaching the bottom, however, they could hear whispers just beyond in the next room.

"I'm telling you, this isn't going anywhere!" a woman's voice said, her accent telling that she was from Hammerfell. "We've already gathered quite a bit, we should leave now while we're still alive!"

"Typical of you Redguards!" an Imperial replied. "Run when the going gets tough. I bet you'll tell everyone you made it down here, huh? Found the ancient underground world all yourself, you'd say?"

The sound of steel clashing against steel was then heard as the two, they guessed, had come to blows. With his sword at the ready, Eirik carefully made his way into the next room. Here he saw a Redguard in armor with a spiked shield trading blows with an Imperial in the armor of the legion: obviously a deserter, as he was far away from any legionnaires and in territory claimed by the Stormcloaks. Eirik readied his sword to take him down first, but the Redguard slammed her shield into the Imperial's face and sent him to the ground, his face bloodied. She then turned to Eirik and pounded her sword upon the shield before charging at him. Eirik jumped aside away from her blow, then swung his blade at her. It missed, but the wave of energy staggered her. Mjoll entered the fray, knocking the shield out of the Redguard's hand and smashing her face with the pommel. She hit the Redguard once, twice, then a third time in the stomach before delivering a powerful elbow thrust to the face that sent the Redguard down and unconscious.

"Where are we?" Eirik asked.

"Farther than we've ever been before," Marcurio stated, his voice reverberating off the stone walls of the tunnel. "My guess is..." He cast a ball of mage-light, which flew across the room and halted at the other side, at what looked like an ancient Dwemer lift. "...That's where we have to go."

Eirik turned to leave, but saw that Mjoll was not moving. He walked over to her, his sword still aimed at the two they had taken down.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Blackreach..." she said with a twinge of fear in her voice. "That was what drove me into Mzinchaleft. Aye, there was the lure of plunder and the thrill of adventure, but no lust for adventure is greater than the call of Blackreach. It claimed many lives..."

"But not yours," Eirik replied confidently.

"Why not?" she asked. "What if losing Grimsever in Mzinchaleft was a sign? What if the gods were trying to tell me something?" She looked at the lift: it was unstained and, like most Dwemer constructs, had not rusted in the centuries it lay beneath the earth. "My death could very well be in the gloom of Blackreach."

"That's the joy of it," Eirik said. "What's life without the risk? Besides, why are you even talking to me of this? I thought..."

"Well, you thought wrong," Mjoll said, though her voice didn't seem very pleasant. "Now, what will you do about these two?"

Eirik looked down at the two they had encountered. He passed his blade over the fallen body of the Imperial, but did not strike. Something inside him told him not too. Instead, he sheathed his sword and walked towards the lift. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of Mjoll and Marcurio as they joined him. They crossed to the lift, which held the weight of all three of them. Eirik seized the lever of the lift and pulled it down, taking them at last into the final descent and into the underworld.

When the lift finally came to a halt, they found themselves in what was left of a Dwemer guard house with a door at the farthest end. Marcurio re-cast his candlelight spell while Eirik pushed open the doors. Beyond awaited the ever-gloom of Blackreach. A massive chamber opened up beyond the door, whose walls and ceiling vanished in the darkness. It was not wholly dark, for here the glowing mushrooms that littered the deepest parts of some of the caves of Skyrim grew to the height of trees. Yet their light was not enough to wholly dispel the darkness that clung heavily to this place, deep beneath the earth. As though the gathering dark was not bad enough, a strange mist lay about the cavernous depths, which made this land of un-light seem to stretch on forever in all directions.

"Let's just find what we need," Eirik said. "And get back to the surface."

"What happened to life without risks?" Mjoll teased.

"I mean that," Eirik replied. "But, by Ysmir's balls, I've found another reason to hate the Dwemer ruins. This place: it exists beyond light, beyond everything I've known and loved. It's...it's like the old stories I've heard, about some of the realms of Oblivion."

"Might not be too far off," Marcurio added.

In the distance, they heard a sound like falling rocks. It was faint and distant, yet frighteningly distinct. Further off, hidden in the mist, a deep voice groaned and sharp, ugly voices howled and groaned mindless words without meaning.

"Do you hear that?" Marcurio asked, turning about to the Nords. "That almost sounded like...a giant!" He laughed. "I hear they can crush a Nord's skull with their bare-hands."

"Just shut up, will you?" Eirik hissed. "I don't like this place as it is, I don't need your embellishments making it any worse."

"Oh, I thought that would have been too big a word for your vocabulary," Marcurio mocked.

"Gods above!" Eirik exclaimed. "We're practically a step away from Oblivion and you want to act like an ass?"

"It's fun," Marcurio replied. "Besides, you're not paying me to kiss your ass, you're paying me to fight your battles for you with my magic."

Eirik groaned, then drew his sword as he began looking about the darkness, looking for something, anything to lead him to his goal. There was nothing at first, only the faint light of a nearby glowing mushroom. As Eirik approached the outer edge of the glow cast from the giant fungus' cap, he saw what looked like an ancient Dwemer road of paved stones that had long since faded into the dirt. He looked first one way down the road and then another way. As far as he could tell, the road gradually inclined upwards. The other way it digressed downwards, farther into the gloom.

"Where are you going?" Marcurio asked.

"To find the Elder Scroll," he replied.

"You don't even know what you're looking for!" the sorcerer explained as he took a step towards the Nord.

"The old man said something about Mzark," Eirik began. "He said the only way to get to it was through this place. Well, I want to be out of here as soon as possible, so I see no reason to wait around any longer."

"But, be reasonable!" Marcurio began. "Oh, why the hell am I asking a Nord to be reasonable? Nevertheless, doesn't something not make sense?"

"And what would that be?" Mjoll interjected.

"Hello? He was clearly insane!" Marcurio began. "Always speaking in rhymes, spouting off those ridiculous statements, always laughing like..." He paused as he remembered a certain Breton from the Frozen Hearth in Winterhold.

"Come to think of it," Mjoll stated. "That book didn't make any sense."

"Still," Eirik said. "I have a task to fulfill, my destiny as the Dragonborn. Whatever that may be, for now it seems my path is to find the Elder Scroll. And I will find it, even if you two are too afraid to brave this gods-forsaken place."

"Never!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"You two can keep your Nordic pride!" Marcurio retorted. "As for me, I'm only going out of charity."

"Charity?" Eirik snorted.

"Why, of course!" Marcurio punctuated. "You two would surely die down here without me!"

Suddenly their discourse was interrupted by loud gurgling sounds and the clacking of chitinous limbs upon stone and moist dirt. In addition to this, they heard the cries of Falmer in the dark, growling and slavering as their noses, the only senses that arguably still worked, detected the scent of the feast to come. From the sheer sound of the shuffling and crackling, the sheer amount of Falmer alone would be at least three times as many as they had faced before: and as for the clacking, clattering noises, it was either frostbite spiders or chauri. Either way, it would not be a pleasant fight.

"Do we even know if this is the right way?" Marcurio asked as they made their way up the sloping road.

"We're looking for a tower," Eirik replied, not even pausing in his flight.

"In this darkness?" Mjoll asked.

"It's our only chance!" Eirik shouted.

For there was no chance of secrecy now, nor truly any use for it. Pursuit was all about them. Even in the dim light of Marcurio's candlelight spell, they could see the milky pale eyes of the Falmer and the inky black orbs of the chauri in hot pursuit behind them. But they dared not pause for a second look, or they might at any moment be pierced by Falmer arrows or bitten by the poisonous fangs of a chaurus. The sickening sounds of pursuit were growing closer as Eirik noticed that the road was now leading them towards something that looked like a tower in the distance, its Dwemer masonry ominously glowing in the light of giant mushrooms.

Suddenly, something jumped at Marcurio. Eirik paused and saw a large, ugly black thing clawing at the Imperial mage beneath him. The memory of a very painful wound and its poisonous affects on him came back to mind, but he couldn't simply let Marcurio die. As much of an ass as he had been, he had his uses as well, and, strangely enough, he was one of the few Imperials who was actually not as confrontational as Crixus had been. With his bare-hands, he heaved the chaurus off Marcurio and threw it against the ground. With a shout, he stomped its head in with its boot, spraying sickly greenish black blood all on the stones. The creature gave one last deathly wriggle before it froze all together, but Eirik wasn't looking at the dead chaurus, but the horde of Falmer and chauri that had now surrounded them. Jowls dripped with venom, mouths gnashed rotten teeth at them, weapons banged against chaurus-hide shields, little better than chitinous scabs. Three of the Falmer ran towards Marcurio, who was trying to push himself back up onto his feet. Eirik placed himself between Marcurio and the Falmer, breathed in and shouted: "_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The incline coupled with the unrelenting force of Eirik's Thu'um sent the three Falmer soaring into the darkness as though they had been kicked by giants. Whatever had befallen them and whether they had died or been grievously maimed Eirik knew not, for the press was growing in around them, and soon they would feel the sting of chaurus venom and Falmer teeth. The way they had been going was blocked and Eirik could not shout again or else risk tearing his throat open.

"Watch out!" Mjoll exclaimed.

Eirik turned about and saw a large chaurus with something hideous coming out of its back, flying through the air towards him. He had but a moment to fall to the ground to avoid being hit by the abomination and then it was gone. As he arose, he noticed that the ranks of the Falmer and chauri were in disarray. Something large was striding amongst them, swatting them about with its large hands.

"It's the giant!" Eirik exclaimed, dumbfounded.

For certainly, though he had not had the honor of slaying a giant, he had definitely seen his fair share of them in Skyrim. In fact, the first time he had seen a giant was in his youth in Falkreath. He had grown up with the stories of their immense strength and how they lived in caves, dressed in animal skins and shunned the company of others. Nevertheless, he had also heard from Frea and Morwen of the Skaal chieftain who had been a giant. Was it indeed possible that the giants were not merely dense nomads? This one, it seemed, had noticed their plight and...

"Come on!" Marcurio shouted. "What are you waiting for? We have to go, now! Before they regroup!"

With that in mind, Eirik and the others left the giant to either ward off the Falmer or be taken down by them. His fate would not be known by Eirik: not yet, at least.

* * *

So it was that, panting and exhausted, the three of them arrived at the tower which they had seen. Up a flight of stairs they went, which made them even more weary, until they came to another lift. Marcurio, seeing that they were weary, used his magic to push the lever in place so that the lift took them up to their goal. It seemed to take forever, just as the walk down into Blackreach had taken them forever by foot. There were no windows, or if there were, they were long since blocked and they could not see what was going on outside of the lift shaft. In truth, the midnight hour was approaching in the world above.

At last the lift came to a halt. One by one they stepped out of the lift and found that it exited upon a large tunnel that ended in some giant, spherical Dwemer device, similar to that which had been in the old man's ice cave. A narrow stair wound its way around the massive sphere and they made their way up the stairs until they came to the top. At the top, they found that the sphere's top was a round, metallic platform with many grooves carved throughout, as though it were part of a mechanism that at any moment would come apart and start moving of its own will. Higher up, they saw the stairs continued up to a console. As they reached the console, Eirik's foot caught on something that snapped so loudly it shocked them all.

"It's nothing," Marcurio snickered, looking down at what it had been. "Just a bunch of old bones."

"No, wait," Eirik dismissed, kneeling down as he pried something out of the skeleton's bony fingers. "A book." He pried open the pages. "It appears to be a journal. Look here, at the top corner of the page. See? The name: Drokt. It must be a journal."

"Let me see that!" Marcurio insisted, taking the book from Eirik's hands and holding the orb of light in his other hand close to it. He laughed. "Well, this man was _obviously_ a Nord! Just look at his crude choice of words!" Eirik took the book out of Marcurio's hands and read just beneath his breath some of the words written therein.

"_'I weren't never one for writing about my life.'_" the journal read. "_'The king-priests of old deserve their stories told, but Drokt is a simple man. So this ain't no journal and I'm not telling no stories here. But this infernal machine done worked its way into my brain-space and I won't leave till it's figured out.'_" Eirik sighed as he closed the book and turned to Marcurio. "Why do you do this?"

"What?" Marcurio laughed. "I'm not doing anything. You Nords make asses of yourselves without any help from me, thank you very much."

"We're not like this, you know," Eirik interjected.

"Oh, of course!" Marcurio spoke in a heavily exaggerated tone. "Let's hear of what words of wisdom you have to say, Nord scholar! Do tell, do you actually read your books _before_ you burn them?"

"Maybe I should kill you and take my money from your corpse?" Eirik threatened.

"Aha!" Marcurio laughed. "I knew you were a true Nord at heart. It's like they say about Bruma: you can take a Nord out of the heart of Skyrim, but you can't take Skyrim out of the heart of a Nord."

"Are you getting somewhere?" Mjoll interjected. "Or are you just making fun of our people?"

"_Your_ people, I might add," Marcurio stated. "Besides, I'm just having fun. You, though..." He pointed to Eirik. "You are the enigma."

"What do you mean?" Eirik glowered.

"You can read, for one thing," Marcurio began. "There aren't any places of higher learning in Skyrim, not even in your precious Windhelm! But what's more than that, you speak like a Cyrodilian, not like one of these country bumpkins."

"Like me?" Mjoll retorted, crossing her arms across her breastplate.

"Not exactly," Marcurio stated. "You, however, I can account for, because you tell basically everyone you meet that you traveled across Tamriel years ago. Obviously you've picked up the learning of the provinces. But you, Eirik Dragonborn, or so you call yourself, how can you speak _and_ read like a proper person?"

Eirik sighed, giving the apprentice mage a scathing look. "I learned at the university in Bruma."

"Oh, a university alumni," Marcurio mocked. "Well, I'll tell you something: a degree in learning there isn't worth the paper it's printed on. That university is a sham, a poor excuse for higher learning in one of Cyrodiil's most backwards towns. Why you even bothered to go there is beyond me!"

"Because that place is hallowed ground," Eirik said. "It was once the Great Chapel of Talos."

"Please," Mjoll interjected. "This is getting us nowhere. Now, what else does the book say?"

Eirik picked it up and began thumbing through the pages. "There's not much here," he said. "Oh, wait. This looks important. A cube..."

"Didn't the old man give you a cube?" Marcurio asked.

"Aye, that he did," Eirik said, as he knelt down and removed the sack of supplies he had on his back. Upon opening, he removed the cube and something else fell to the stone floor. Eirik looked down and saw an amulet. He recognized it as the amulet he had been given by Morwen and told to place upon her parent's grave in Falkreath. He sighed, aware that he had long since delayed in this task. He replaced the amulet into the sack, then held up the blank cube.

"Now, where does this go?" Eirik asked, looking at the cube in his hand. Marcurio, meanwhile, took the book out of Eirik's hands and began thumbing through it.

"He said something about a hole," Marcurio snickered. "Then there's _'Five rings, but only four buttons?'_ I wonder what that means."

"The console," Mjoll said. They ran back to where she stood. At the top of the stairs there was a console with six small pylons. One had a hole and the other five seemed to have buttons, but only two of them were lit and the one in the middle had no buttons at all, but something that looked like a star-chart with blue stars.

Eirik placed the cube in the pylon with the hole. Nothing happened.

"Well?" Eirik asked.

"Well, press something!" Marcurio urged.

Eirik reached out his hand and pressed the glowing button on the far right. Suddenly there was a loud grinding of gears and Eirik reached for the Bloodskal blade, fearing an attack by the Dwemer automatons. But his hand slacked as he saw the real meaning for the noise. The sphere before them had come undone and was now moving on gears and spinning wheels, moving about until the surface was now pocked with lenses of purest glass. All of them were stricken silent by the beauty of the machine, even Eirik and Marcurio.

"It's an Oculory," Marcurio stated. "I've heard stories about these from my university days, but I never thought I'd actually live to see one!"

"What is it?" Mjoll asked.

"From what I've heard," Marcurio began. "It's a kind of map. A map of Tamriel, with nexuses of powerful magicka as the legend. At least, that's what I've been told. But who knows what the Dwemer made this one for. Gods, I never even knew one was here!"

"Is that what the giant sphere thing is?" Eirik asked.

"I would think so," Marcurio replied. "Quickly, press another button. Maybe that will open it."

Before Eirik moved, he noticed that the cube, the blank lexicon the old man had given him, was now glowing with the same kind of teal light that was coming from the buttons upon the console. He then moved back to the buttons and pressed the one in between the centerpiece and the far right button. The Oculory shifted, its giant rings whirring about noisily, and the glass plates shifted once again, until its face had completely changed. The plates were gone now.

"Well _that_ wasn't right," Marcurio stated. "Here, let me try it."

He pushed Eirik away from the console and began pressing buttons. The Oculory's rings shifted and the plates revolved around the sphere over and over, but nothing much seemed to change, except for the placement of the plates upon the sphere. Eirik watched the many large parts of the Oculory moving about and Mjoll, meanwhile, was watching the console.

"Wait," she said. "Hold it! One of the...oh, dammit! There it goes!"

"What?" Marcurio asked. "What just happened?"

"One of the lights on the console became lit for a moment," she said. "Do what you did before." Marcurio pressed the button on the mid-right pylon and the mid-left pylon, that which stood between the centerpiece and the pylon on the far left, became active, its button shining with a teal light. "There it is!" Mjoll pressed the button and there was another ringing of gears and whooshing of heavy things moving above their heads. Looking up, they saw several large focusing lenses on heavy Dwemer metal arms lowered from the ceiling. From the center of the ceiling, a cool light shone down from what appeared to be a hole. It was still very dim, and not the overwhelmingly bright light of the sun, but it was enough to lighten some of the lenses about the Oculory.

"Do that again," Eirik said.

"No, that will retract the lenses," Mjoll interjected.

"I agree," Marcurio said, reaching over and suddenly pressing the button. The lenses swung about and came to a halt at the precise place where the light from the oculus in the center of the room was reflected upon all of the lenses and shone down onto the glass plates. In one moment the light was caught and the lenses swung back until they hung in place above the main body of the Oculory, whose rings had rearranged into a ramp leading to the center part of the sphere. A large crystal-like case made of malachite was then lowered down from the ceiling and came to rest a foot or so above the center of the Oculory. With a gentle hiss, the crystal broke, though no crack or mark had been seen upon it by any of them before the noise was heard. It opened up before them, revealing something nestled within a golden case.

Eirik was the first one to approach the device, leaping down from the raised platform and onto the level of the Oculory. He crossed the last few steps slowly as he gazed into the golden case held within the crystal. Inside he saw a large Scroll, about a cubit in length, whose ends were of gold and the pommels on either side of what looked like red velvet. With fear he reached out and took the Scroll in his hands. It was heavy, and yet seemed to be moving ever so slightly beneath his fingers, as though the Scroll itself were living. He knew beyond a doubt that this was what he sought: the Elder Scroll.

"Is that it?" Marcurio asked. While Eirik had approached the Oculory to retrieve the Scroll, Mjoll and Marcurio had walked down the stairs and were now at his side.

"Aye, I think it is," Eirik said with quiet reverence.

"An Elder Scroll!" Mjoll gasped in awe. "Oh, my father told me the legends about the Elder Scrolls, said they were even more dodgy than the stories of dragons. But...it's real!"

"Yes, and the dragons are real as well," Eirik added.

"Look, behind us!" Marcurio stated.

One by one they turned about, fearing to see some hideous monstrosity of Falmer-kin come to slay them, or at least a Dwemer machine to defend such a precious artifact. Instead, what they found was a long tunnel leading to another lift at the far end. They made their way to the lift, with Eirik stowing the Elder Scroll underneath his armor, right up against his chest. He wouldn't risk it being stolen by some petty burglar and then sold to someone like Maven Black-Briar for a tidy profit. This was the key to slaying Alduin, worth more gold than any Black-Briar, Grey-Mane or Imperial family of high standing anywhere in Skyrim, Cyrodiil or anywhere else. He would guard it with his life!

"Talos be praised!" he exclaimed, as he saw the lift. All too eager was he to see the surface once again.

* * *

**(AN: I know that I gave Marcurio a few spells he doesn't have in the game, so I at least gave an explanation that he had never tried out the Fire Rune spell, as that would at least make it seem as though he had read about it and the use thereof but never actually mastered it until now. Gee, aren't evolving follower mods just great?)**

**(Okay, in other news...FINALLY! We're someplace else than freaking Alftand! I hope I described Blackreach adequately, and now that we can finally get on with the rest of the story, something good will be happening in the next chapter, so PLEASE stick around. It will be worth it! I also tried to make Eirik a little bit more self-confident, because while I want him to be culturally aware and mindful of his own denationalization, I don't want him to fall into the "blond and naive" Scandinavian stereotype, which I fear he was starting to fall into already, even though he has brown hair. The "university" of Bruma is something I created, since, as I'm certain the Cyrodilians, including the Nords in Bruma, gave up Talos without a second thought, and so the Great Chapel from _Oblivion_ was discontinued.)**


	52. Rescue and Redemption

**(AN: Wow, let me just say thank you to all of you for reading/following/favoriting my story. I'm glad to have so many devoted readers. For that, and also because we're FINALLY out of Alftand and the story-line I've written calls for it, something rather good is going to happen in this chapter.)**

* * *

**Rescue and Redemption**

It was long after midnight when Eirik Dragonborn, Mjoll the Lioness and Marcurio the Apprentice Wizard left the lift in the Tower of Mzark. But it felt good to breathe clean, fresh air and to feel soft, cold snow beneath their feet. Even Marcurio was joyous to be outside of the gloom that had been Alftand and the realm of Blackreach. They sat for a while within the lift, enjoying the beauty of the Northern lights in the sky and the cool, crisp northern air in their lungs. At last, Marcurio spoke.

"So," he said. "Now that you found what you're looking for, what's next?"

"You can go back to whatever skeever-den you crawled from," Eirik retorted.

"Aw, so soon?" Marcurio pouted in a mocking voice. "I was just starting to warm up to you!"

"Spare me your bullshit," Eirik groaned.

"Oh, so you think you can make it on your own, is that it?" Marcurio asked, now taking an offended tone. "We'll just see about that, won't we?"

"Where will you go now?" Eirik asked.

"Not that it's any of your business," Marcurio said. "But I'm going back to Winterhold. Maybe if Crixus stops there, he'll let me return to Riften. It's been too long since I've had a good draft of Black-Briar mead." He winked at Mjoll.

"This is why I hate sellswords," Mjoll said, turning to Eirik. "They have no honor, no desire for anything greater than a few meager coins in their pockets."

"But we enjoy the best things in life," Marcurio stated. He then turned to Eirik and shook his head, before turning about, throwing his hood up over his head and walking off into the darkness.

"Wait," Eirik called back. "Shouldn't we at least walk you the rest of the way to Winterhold?"

"I'm not a child, you know!" Marcurio replied. "I can look after myself!"

"But there are wolves," Eirik began. "And...and dragons, especially at night. Come now, don't be unreasonable. Let us follow you as far as Winterhold, at least. There, we will see you to the end of your journey."

At this, Marcurio laughed. "Already you can't stand to be away from me. I tell you, you won't get anywhere without my help. Nevertheless, if my guess is correct, even in this darkness..." He pointed away westward. "Those are the Stonehill mountains, in which rests a shrine to Mehrunes Dagon, the daedric prince responsible for the Oblivion crisis. If my guess is correct, then Winterhold would be that way." He turned about and pointed north-eastward, towards the high mountains of Eastmarch.

"By the gods!" Mjoll exclaimed. "How far we have traveled through the realm of Blackreach!"

"Yes yes, it's all very intriguing," Marcurio stated. "Now, as I was saying, we've come quite a way away from Winterhold, which means that if you came back with me, it would be an even longer walk to wherever you're going. Thought I'd spare you a day or so of back-tracking."

"T...Thank you," Eirik stammered, unsure of how to respond to what he had said. It seemed unnaturally thoughtful of Marcurio to do so, and it was only then that he realized that he was soon to be very lonely. There wasn't much hope that Mjoll would stay with him now, and it would be a long and lonely road back to Whiterun to find Lydia. Marcurio nodded, then turned his back on them and walked off into the night. The darkness took him and he was soon lost to their searching eyes.

* * *

An awkward silence hung in the air between Eirik and Mjoll after Marcurio left. The two stared at each other in the darkness, remaining silent for a long space of time. At last, Eirik broke the silence.

"I assume you'll be wanting to return to Riften," he said grimly.

Mjoll said nothing, but shook her head. That alone surprised Eirik greatly.

"No?" he asked. "I...Gods above, I thought you had had enough of me, after that incident..."

"Eirik," Mjoll interjected. "Before you say anything else, listen to what I have to say. First, I may yet decide to leave you in the future. I only have not because I considered you a trust-worthy friend. While you broke that trust, there are...other things that press on my mind and heart. And so I have decided to give you time to prove yourself worthy of my trust once again."

"I don't know what to say..." Eirik began.

"Don't say anything, I'm not through yet," she continued. "I want you to know how difficult this is for me. Do not think that I give you this second chance trivially. You came close to robbing me of my honor, my dignity and my power. Ask yourself this: if I had tried to debase you, as Crixus and Marcurio have done, and take your Thu'um from you all in one blow, would you be as forgiving?"

Eirik did not respond. The way she spoke, calmly yet with strained voice, made him feel even worse for dallying with the drunken Breton mage. If only that had not happened...but no, he couldn't lay all the blame on that. Drunk or no, he had still done, or attempted to do, horrible things to Mjoll.

"Why?" he spoke at last. "Why give me a second chance?"

"I...I can't say," she shook her head, speaking hesitantly. "Not until I know you are worthy of trust."

"So, where are we now?" Eirik asked.

"I'll follow you as far as Whiterun," she began. "After that, I cannot tell. For now, however, we should get some rest. It's late and we have done much in the space of a day and a night."

So it was decided that they would sleep within the shelter of the lift, whose doors they had sealed before they unfurled their bed-rolls and so would be safe from wolves or bears, should they perchance to attack. Eirik could not fall asleep immediately, for he remembered the words of Mjoll, which still stung his heart. He wanted to say something, to ask her why she had chosen to give him a second chance. He tossed and turned in his bed-roll upon the cold stone for a long while, then looked up at where Mjoll lay. He could hear soft sobbing, quiet and unobtrusive, coming from where she slept. Once again his heart stung at that sound: he was the cause of those tears. His last thoughts before he slept were of Mjoll and how dark things were without the over-brightness of Marcurio's candlelight spell.

* * *

When morning dawned, bright and early, the two Nords awoke and gathered their things together. They ate of dried meat and old cheese and had no drinks for the day's march. They said nothing to each other as they ate and prepared for the journey. Eirik opened the lift gate and stood aside like a steward, holding open the door for the lady of the house. Mjoll said a quiet thank you and continued on, whereupon Eirik followed her outside and looked out upon the land before them.

As Marcurio had said last night, they were in the Stonehill mountains south-east of Morthal. He remembered crossing these mountains with Lydia when they came this way last month. Even that memory seemed to disgust him, for he feared that, in his drunken haze, he had spoken of that night in Mjoll's presence. His mind was returned to the land of the living when Mjoll asked Eirik which way they would be going.

"Morthal is closest," he said. "We go there, and then to Whiterun."

To this she silently agreed and they went on their way, going first eastward so that they might leave the mountains. While crossing them would most likely cut a few hours off their journey, these mountains were the haunt of giants, which might not be as amiable as that one which they had found in Blackreach. So they chose to leave the mountains and make their way westward along the northern border of the Stonehill mountains and so come to Morthal by way of the road.

About mid-day, they had come down the mountain and were now making their way across to where they would meet the road. The journey was slow, for they were both laden by much plunder they had taken from Alftand. Nevertheless, they made good time and soon found the road. But, as luck would have it, as they were coming upon the road, a horse-drawn cart came riding up the road from the south to meet them. Eirik and Mjoll counted five persons, the eldest in his forties and the youngest about five. The cart came to a halt as the driver saw the two large Nords standing on the side of the road, both of them heavily armored and bearing weapons.

"Good morrow," the man greeted. His accent told him to be Breton, one of the half-elven race of men native to High Rock. "Can I help you?"

"We're not bandits, good Breton," Eirik said. "We come in peace."

"Then you can go in peace," the Breton man replied. "We're on our way to Solitude and can't delay any longer. Hjaalmarch is especially dangerous these days and we wouldn't want to be benighted here."

"We're on our way to Morthal," Mjoll interjected. "That lies on the way to Solitude. If you would be ruled by my advice, you would take us along with you. As you say, these lands are dangerous. My friend and I are peerless warriors, we would be more than happy to serve you as your guards as far as Morthal."

"That's mighty kind of you," the Breton replied. "But I'm afraid I have little coin to spare for such an offer."

"That is well," Mjoll replied. "For we do not expect to be paid. Keep your money, you need it."

"By the Divines!" the Breton man exclaimed. "It's not every day you meet such kindhearted people, especially in Skyrim. Uh, you can ride in the back if it suits you."

So it was that Eirik and Mjoll joined the Breton man and his family on their way to Solitude by way of Morthal. Once they joined, they gave their names to the man, whose name was Alan. His wife's name was Lilaine and his three children were Leya the eldest daughter, Etienne his son who was about three years younger than Leya, and little Jehanne, who was five years old. While they rode, Eirik saw that Mjoll and little Jehanne soon became fast friends: the little girl exclaimed that she wanted to be a warrior like Mjoll when she grew up and Mjoll was obviously taken in by Jehanne's charm and playful innocence. Eirik spoke more with Alan and Lilaine, but they spoke little about themselves and more about what was going on in the world abroad.

"So, what brings you so far away from High Rock?" Eirik asked.

"The Miracle of Peace," Alan began. "It was back in the Third Era when the gods smote down upon Iliac Bay in their fury over the Breton people. Most of the history books tell you that the Breton kingdoms gave up their differences and came together. Well, it wasn't as easy as that. The ones who survived - Camlarn, Wayrest, Northpoint, Daggerfall and Jehanna..."

"That's my city!" little Jehanne exclaimed happily.

"Is it really?" Mjoll laughed.

"No," Lilaine replied. "My husband and I named her Jehanne in memory of that city, where my family hailed from."

"Anyway," Alan continued. "Those were the ones who survived the Miracle as most of the people left over simply integrated into those kingdoms. There were some, however, who didn't. These went south and eastward into the rest of Tamriel to seek their fortune: my great grand-father was among them. He settled in Cyrodiil and lived there for the rest of his life. I was born in Anvil and fought in the Great War! Now, I intend to board a ship in Solitude and return to High Rock."

"You must be one of the merchant classes," Mjoll said.

"Nay," Alan shook his head. "But in Cyrodiil, even a poor Breton peasant can come to much more if he serves his time fighting for the greater glory of the Empire."

"Skyrim is rather out of the way, isn't it?" Eirik spoke up. "And dangerous as well, especially for a family."

"That may be so," Alan continued. "But it's still part of the Empire, no matter what Ulfric Stormcloak says."

"You side with the Empire?" Eirik asked.

"Well, of course I do!" Alan chuckled, as though it were not a matter open for debate. "Well, meaning no offense to you or your friend, it's just that we've never had the compulsion or longing desire to worship Talos, so it meant little to us when the White-Gold Concordant was passed. We find the Eight original Divines to be plenty enough."

They traveled on in silence, with nothing more than the song of the birds in the trees. Eirik and Mjoll exchanged glances but said nothing. After a while, however, they approached a barricade in the midst of the road which had not been there before when Eirik and Lydia had first come this way. As the cart came to a halt, an Imperial officer on a horse approached the cart.

"This road is out of service," the officer said. "Go back the way you came."

"What's the meaning of this?" Alan asked. "My family and I are on our way to Solitude, this is the swiftest road!"

"Then you must try some other way," the officer retorted. "This road has been closed. General Tullius believes a detachment of rebels will try to attack Whiterun within the month. All of the roads leading into Stormcloak territory have been closed as the legion prepares their defenses."

"We're not rebels," Alan said. "Why would we be? We're Bretons, we've never worshiped Talos!"

"We'll see about that, won't we?" the officer asked, then turned to one of his soldiers. "Cassius, search them!"

"Yes, captain!" the soldier called Cassius replied with a fist pounded against his breastplate in salute. He approached Alan and gestured towards a small clearing on the side of the road. "Pull it over there!"

"Come now," Alan replied. "Is this really necessary?"

"Orders," Cassius barked. "Now pull the cart off the road!"

"Is this how you treat a loyal subject of the Empire, and a veteran?" Alan asked. "I fought the Dominion when the Emperor reclaimed the Imperial City! I was given a sword of honor from the Emperor himself and enough septims to change my station!"

"We don't give special treatment to anyone!" the officer retorted. "Ulfric was a veteran of the war as well. Now pull the cart off the road now or I'll confiscate your cart on suspicion of smuggling weapons to the rebels!"

Alan grumbled as he cracked the reins and led the cart off the road as directed. Cassius ordered them out of the cart one by one, then began searching through their bags and things they had packed in the cart. Eirik was watching them with suspicion and supreme loathing when suddenly Mjoll seized his head by her hands and pressed her lips against his own.

"Break it up, you two!" the captain shouted.

They parted, leaving Eirik incredibly confused. The last he had known, Mjoll was on the verge of leaving him to his journey alone. She did not look his way, but instead was turned to the soldier, who had now left the cart and walked over to the captain.

"Nothing, sir," Cassius said. "Perhaps they're right."

"Hold, Cassius," the captain said. He dismounted his horse, giving the reins to Cassius, then walked over to the family of five and the two Nords. Eirik and Mjoll were sticking out like Argonians in Morrowind.

"And who are these two?" the captain asked.

"Uh, mercenaries," Alan lied. "Hired to protect us."

"Hired?" the captain retorted. He looked over at Cassius, who shook his head, then looked back at Alan. "Surprising that you managed to acquire enough money to hire Nord mercenaries, and _two_ of them, by Arkay!"

"I received a large compensation for my services to the Empire," Alan replied.

"Oh, I see," the captain said, his tone showing that he did not buy Alan's story. "Stand still, now. Cassius, search them, all of them. Women, children, these two...'mercenaries.'"

"Captain, please," Alan interjected. "It's still quite a long way to Morthal, and we will be benighted should we wait any longer."

"You will hold your tongue, Breton!" the captain retorted. He then turned to Cassius and nodded sharply.

Starting first with Alan, Cassius inspected every inch of him and everything he had on his person. When Cassius ordered Alan to remove his clothes, he protested for the sake of his children. The captain compromised by having Alan remove his shirt only. Predictably, they found nothing. Next, Cassius approached Eirik, whom he had to look up to just to see his face. Eirik's heart dropped, for he knew that it would not be long before they found his Talos amulet and they would all be arrested as rebels. He had betrayed them through no fault other than his choice of worship.

"And what about you, longshanks?" Cassius asked. "Hmm? Another sheep-shagging Talos worshiper?"

"Captain, I beg you!" Alan said to the captain. "For my children's sake!"

"Proceed," the captain said.

Cassius approached Eirik and ordered him to take off his armor. He did so slowly, keeping a stern glance on Cassius as he removed each of the steel portions. Once it was all removed, Cassius ordered Eirik to remove his shirt. Eirik did so reluctantly, as he feared that he would soon be discovered and they would all be arrested for his fault. He removed his shirt and placed it among his armor and then he saw, to his surprise, that his powerfully built, hairy chest was bare, save for the few cuts and scars of his profession. There was no amulet.

"Captain," Cassius said, turning to the captain. "I think we should keep this one."

"Why do you say so?" the captain asked. "Did you find anything on him?"

"No," Cassius shook his head. "But I don't like the way he looks."

The captain approached Eirik and looked him over with a stern, fierce glare. "Do you think you're tough, ape? I've stood toe-to-toe with the Aldmeri Dominion, seen my comrades eviscerated by Altmer mages!"

"Captain, please!" Alan stated.

"Silence!" the captain retorted, not moving his eyes from Eirik. "Who do you worship?"

"I worship the Divines," Eirik replied, gritting his teeth.

"Which Divines, you pale-faced scumbag?" the captain retorted. Eirik was silent. "Fine, hold your peace. Just know this: I'm the reason the Dominion stays out of Skyrim! Remember that, you dumb brute!"

Eirik had to bite his lip from exploding in rage against this Imperial captain and his brazen words. With a sniff, the captain turned next to Mjoll, who stood between Eirik and Lilaine. He ordered her to remove her armor, but she protested.

"I gave you an order!" the captain shouted. "Now remove your armor and prepare to be inspected!"

"Safety is one thing," Mjoll replied. "But this is indecency! Do you intend to tear off my shirt as well, like you did with these two?" She gestured to Eirik and Alan. "And then you intend not only to shame a father before his children, but shame a father by having his children stripped like prisoners? You can try if you'd like, but I swear I'll stand against you!"

Cassius drew out his sword, but the captain ordered him to halt with a wave of his hand. He looked Mjoll up and down, and then at Lilaine and the children. He groaned in frustration. "I suppose you're clean. Still, we can't have you going into Morthal without an escort. Never know with these rebels, they could be hiding out in the woods, waiting until you've left to hitch a ride on your cart. We'll have to send you on your way with an armed escort."

Alan groaned. "I assure you..."

"Any more of your lip and I'll clap you in irons!" the captain retorted. "Cassius, bring two more guards up this way and secure these people."

* * *

The night was falling in the hold of Markarth and still Alan, his family and Eirik and Mjoll were kept under guard at the Imperial post. Mjoll kept little Jehanne occupied with a game after the little girl grew bored with the endless hours of waiting. After Jehanne had won a third time in a row, Eirik walked over to Mjoll.

"Aye?" she asked.

"I..." he began, stammering and speaking in a low voice to keep the guards oblivious. "I don't know how we got past them. My..." He then saw Mjoll reach into her breastplate and pull out the hammer-cross emblem of Eirik's amulet of Talos, before stowing it away once again in her bosom. "By the gods! I don't know what to say!"

"Don't say anything," she replied. "I was just helping you out in a tight spot."

"Why?"

"Don't ask," she shook her head.

Just then, they became aware that someone was approaching the blockade. Eirik looked and saw nothing other than a hooded figure, something that looked no different than one of the mages at the College of Winterhold. He said nothing, no announcement or greeting: in fact, they didn't even know if it was a he. One of the guards around them noticed the newcomer in the light of the nearby fire-pit and gripped the hilt of his sword.

"That's close enough, mage," he said. "This is an Imperial blockade. No one's allowed here without permission. Stand down and state your name."

The stranger said nothing, but continued to approach. The soldier drew his sword and aimed it at the stranger. He was now close enough that Eirik could see the bottom of his face in the light of the fire. The rest was hidden by the hood he wore, but from what he could see, the person was definitely male and human.

"This is your last warning!" the solider shouted. "One step further and I'll..."

In so short a time that it could accurately have been called the blink of an eye, the hooded stranger moved from where he stood to about a few inches in front of his face, his hand upon the soldier's throat, lifting him up a foot off the ground. There was a sickening cracking sound and the Imperial soldier cried out in agony as blood was gushing out of a hole in the soldier's neck.

"Vampire!" the other soldier shouted, drawing his sword and rushing boldly to the aid of his comrade. In a blur of movement, the hooded vampire threw the blooded Imperial to the ground and swatted the oncoming soldier with his hand. Another sickening crunch was heard and the second soldier fell to the ground, his head twisted around the wrong way.

Eirik drew out the Bloodskal blade from where the Imperials had stashed their weapons and stood his ground around Alan and the others. Mjoll, meanwhile, took Grimsever from the pile as well.

"Get their weapons!" Eirik ordered. "If it tries to attack us, at least we'll die keeping it away."

"Etienne, come back!" Alan shouted.

The middle child was running towards one of the dead Imperials, reaching for his sword. Eirik saw the vampire turn towards the lad, and he feared what would come next. There was a blur and he acted on instinct.

"_Tiid!_" he shouted. Time slowed down and he saw the vampire moving as fast as one who walks. He ran towards the vampire, drawing out the Bloodskal blade and swinging it back in a wide arc, aiming to swipe off its head...

Suddenly he felt as the vampire somehow realized that something had moved before him. With a swipe, he knocked the Bloodskal blade out of Eirik's hands and halted, gazing at him with surprise.

"You," he hissed. "They told me about you, the one they saw joining the Dawnguard. And one learned in the Way of the Voice!" He laughed, showing that two of his teeth were dagger-shaped and pointed. "This should be fun!"

With a sudden swipe that was too fast for Eirik to dodge, the vampire struck him in the chest. It felt like he was trapped in a dragon's jaws and it had clamped down upon him. His steel breastplate shattered beneath the crushing blow and he himself was thrown to the ground like the victims of his Thu'um of the unrelenting force. Just then, an arrow went whizzing towards them and struck the ground just a few inches next to Eirik's hand. Several of the Imperial soldiers had noticed the newcomer and were coming to the defense. The vampire, however, was too fast and in a blur of movement had set upon three of the soldiers at once, taking them all out with one face-smashing slap across the face on top of another.

"Do something!" Lilaine shouted.

Eirik walked towards the vampire, who was now stooped over one of the soldiers. This one had not been slain but subdued by the beast's great strength and was now being feasted upon by the beast.

"Hey!" Eirik shouted at the vampire. "You want to fight someone, you fight me!"

The vampire turned back to Eirik and hissed. He could feel the strength growing in his chest. He smiled at the vampire and breathed in heavily.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The beast tried to move, but the Thu'um of unrelenting force caught its foot and sent it spiraling away against the stockade. With a cry, the vampire was thrown against the wooden spikes and impaled thus upon them. It gave a loud, frustrated groan as it started to pull itself off of the spikes. Eirik, meanwhile, wasn't going to wait for the vampire to be back on its feet. Picking up one of the Imperial's swords, he strode towards the vampire and ran the blade directly into the vampire's throat. It spat and gurgled as it choked on its own blood, but the damage was done and it stopped writhing. Eirik tossed the sword away, then made his way for the Bloodskal blade, but then realized, as his blood started to cool, that his whole body was sore from where the vampire had struck him.

"Gods, no!" the voice of Lilaine cried out.

Eirik ran suddenly to where the family and Mjoll were huddled by the fire. There he saw little Jehanne, lying in her mother's arms, her dress stained in blood from a wound on her arm.

"I wasn't fast enough," Mjoll conceded ruefully.

"She will be better, won't she?" Leya asked. "It's just a little wound, should be easily cleaned."

"No, my daughter," Alan shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm afraid not."

"Why?" Leya asked.

"The stories?" Eirik asked Mjoll, who shook her head slowly.

"Aye, the stories."

"What stories?" Etienne asked.

"Look at her arm," Mjoll said. The wound was made with teeth marks. "In Cyrodiil and Morrowind, they call it _Porphyric Hemophilia._"

"No, no no!" Lilaine wept. Alan shed tears in silent shock, fearing what would happen to his precious child.

"Blood of the Vampire," Eirik said.

"What's all this then?" a voice shouted. Eirik turned about and saw Cassius and the captain arriving with the rest of their battalion, too late to save the six soldiers who lay dead upon the cold ground.

"There was a vampire attack," Eirik said. "Their daughter has been bitten. This is your fault, Imperials!" He pointed at the captain. "If you had let us be on our way, none of this would have happened!"

"Impudent dog!" Cassius cried out, drawing his sword. "I'll cut your tongue out for that!"

"Stay your blade, soldier!" the captain replied. He then turned to Eirik. "I don't like you, Nord. But I'm not a cruel man. I've heard rumors that Jarl Ravencrone has been entertaining a mage in Morthal who has been studying vampires with the recent rise in attacks around the holds. Maybe he might know something."

"What is his name?" Eirik asked.

"Falion, I believe," the captain retorted. "I'll have my soldiers sent to Morthal to have him brought here before midday tomorrow."

"She might not have that much time!" Eirik returned, then ran back to the family. He picked up little Jehanne in his arms and placed her in the cart, then turned to the family. "Into the cart with you! Your daughter's life depends on it!"

"Hold!" the captain shouted. "You will stand down."

"You want this girl's death on your conscience, captain?" Eirik asked. He gave Mjoll a hand up onto the cart, then cracked the reins and sent the cart tumbling down the road, skirting dangerously close to the spiked barricade. Like Mjoll had said, there were only stories about vampires in Skyrim, very few actual reported cases in the current era. Being neither a vampire himself nor one who was learned in their lore, he knew not how long it would take before Jehanne was lost to them. He cared not, for there was no other choice save to go in search of Falion and hope that the rumors about him were true.

* * *

Morthal reeked of filth swamp water even at night. He rode up to the Jarl's longhouse, then climbed off the cart and approached one of the guards almost frantically.

"What is it, dragons?" the guard asked.

"No," Eirik panted. "There's a girl! Attacked by vampires!"

"A pity, kinsman," the guard replied, shaking his head. "Where's the beast? We'll hunt it down..."

"I killed it already," Eirik replied. "But I need to do something for this child, she's been bitten..."

"I can't say for sure," the guard shook his head. "But I've heard rumors about old Falion. He's down at the west side of town, across the lake."

Eirik needed little more. He ran back to the cart, picked up Jehanne in his arms and made his way towards the west end of Morthal. Behind him, he could hear close at hand the sobs of Alan and Lilaine as they fretted over their daughter, who had drifted into a dark sleep after being attacked in the blurred frenzy. Near at hand, Leya was holding her little sister's hand, that whose arm had not been bitten, and was trying to speak to her. At the rear, Etienne and Mjoll were doing their best to follow on behind.

At the house, Eirik pounded on the door frantically over and over. There was no answer at first, and so he pounded again and again.

"Arkay's balls!" a voice shouted. "Don't you Nords have anything better to do than bother me in the dead of night? What is it this time, have I been robbing graves and having..."

"Open up!" Eirik demanded.

"Why? So you can run me out of town like you've been threatening to do?"

"No, I need your help!" Eirik insisted. "I have a young girl, she's been bitten by a vampire..."

No sooner had those words been spoken but the door was opened and a hooded Redguard man appeared, a ball of light hovering in his hand.

"Come in, come in!" he insisted. "Please, pardon my words, all of you. You don't know what it's like being here. The Jarl tolerates my presence: _she_, at least, sees the benefit of my skills. The rest of these idiot Nords think I'm some corpse-raping necromancer! Ha! They're afraid of _any_ kind of magic! Now, tell me about this girl." He pointed to Jehanne in Eirik's arms. "At what time was she bitten?"

"About an hour ago," Eirik said.

"Then there's still hope," the Redguard replied. He then turned to Alan and Lilaine. "Is this your daughter?"

"Yes, sir," Alan nodded. "Please, good sir, do something. Anything! You've just got to save my daughter's life!"

"I shall do my best," he replied.

Though the Redguard mage Falion told them to sleep, none of them felt like sleeping: not when Jehanne's life was in danger. But Falion insisted that they sleep, for the ritual he would undertake for purifying Jehanne of the vampire's blood curse, which he named Sanguinare Vampiris, would commence in the last hours of the night, just before dawn. And so they waited and waited, with sleep driven from their eyes and hearts. The hours wiled away. The fire in the hearth in Falion's house was starting to become hypnotic to any who stared into its fiery depths for too long, yet it was the only source of heat in this cold, drafty house. At last, everyone was roused from their trance-like state of neither waking nor sleeping by a simple sound, one heard everywhere throughout the holds yet this one held their hope and assurance: the crowing of a rooster to welcome the soon-coming of dawn.

"Come!" Falion exclaimed. "And bring the girl."

Eirik turned to Alan, who picked up his daughter in his own arms and followed Falion outside, with the rest of his family in tow. Eirik, meanwhile, groaned as he walked outside. Behind him, Mjoll followed, though he did not follow the others to the standing stones where Falion would perform the ritual of cleansing. His eyes were set southward, towards Whiterun. It would be a long journey there by foot and he would have to begin immediately.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Eirik finally arrived at the gates of Whiterun, with Mjoll in tow. They had said nothing to each other on the long way there, nor did they say any words when they made their way to Breezehome. Lydia opened the door and greeted Eirik with fair words, but he was too weary to reply and told her to return to sleep. He went up to his bed and fell asleep the moment his face hit the pillow. In the morning, he went off to cut wood for Hulda at the Bannered Mare. This he spent all morning doing before making his way to Jorrvaskr and sparring with the Companions. Once done, he went up to Dragonsreach in the Cloud District and spoke to Jarl Balgruuf's steward, Proventus, for any work that needed to be done.

So it was that at dusk, Eirik returned to Breezehome where he slept the night away in solitude. In the morning, he went to Warmaiden's for a new breastplate before heading out to kill a camp of bandits for the Jarl. He was out all day and returned to Whiterun with his sword bloodied and victory in his eyes. He told the news of his success to the steward, then cut more wood for the Bannered Mare, then returned weary to Breezehome. He sat reading the next book in the series _Biography of Barenziah_, then ate a bit of stewed venison from a deer he had slain during his hunt for the bandits. After a while, however, he put down the book, set aside his bowl, and gazed into the fire for a long while. For most of his younger life, he felt that he needed no one and nothing, and therefore relished the chance to be out adventuring in Skyrim or Cyrodiil in solitude. Now with the prospect of Mjoll leaving him, presumably for good, he found himself to be strangely saddened.

He slowly finished the rest of his venison, bent the corner of the page he was last reading in _Barenziah_ second volume, then put it back on the shelf. With a sigh, he ascended the stairs, entered his room and closed the door behind him. It would be an early night's rest he would have this day, which was better than what he had had in recent days. He had not laid his head down upon the pillow for more than a moment when a knock sounded at the door.

"Back again, Lydia?" he asked. "I thought you were away at market all day."

He crossed the floor to the door and pulled it open. It was Mjoll, standing in the door to his bed-room. She was clad still in her armor but had a traveling scarf swathed about her neck.

"It's me," Mjoll said.

"Come to say goodbye?" he asked.

"I have some things to straighten out first," she began. "May we have a seat?"

Eirik brought a candle over to the table in his room where Lydia often would sit and drink from her favorite tankard, then pulled out a chair for Mjoll, then one for himself.

"As I'm sure you noticed," Mjoll began. "I have kept my distance from you this past day or so. I felt that I should rather stay at the Bannered Mare while I remained here for a while, as there were some things I had to attend to first."

"Well, you could have stayed here," Eirik offered.

"Please, let me finish," Mjoll insisted. She then sighed, rubbing the right side of her face: her face thus covered, she almost looked like a very beautiful Dunmer, save for the ears which were not tapered. "I also needed time to myself for several reasons. But now I've returned, and now I can answer your question."

"Which question?" he asked.

"The one you asked me outside of the Tower of Mzark," she said. "I told you that I had given you a second chance to prove yourself worthy of trust. You asked me why, which is only normal. You had come dangerously close to robbing me of my virtue."

"I thought I had done so," Eirik sighed, averting his eyes to the floor. "I heard you weeping when we spent the night in the lift."

Mjoll shook her head. "I was weeping, yes, but not the way you think. You see..." She bit her lower lip as she spoke, also averting her eyes as though ashamed of what she would now say. "...I examined myself that night. I was weeping because I found that I was whole, untouched."

Eirik breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

"I wept for two reasons," she began. "One for joy, which was the most important, not only for my power but for my own honor."

"And the other?"

"In anger at myself."

"For what?"

"For ever doubting you."

Eirik was stunned at this revelation. It was better than he could have hoped for! However, there were still some questions burning at his mind and heart which he needed to have answered.

"Nevertheless," she continued. "You tried to have your way with me, and then took a harlot when you could not. I had to put you to the test to see if you were worthy of my trust."

"I am sorry," he sighed. "I have no excuse for my actions."

"That is commendable," Mjoll added. "You accept the consequences of your actions without any attempt to shift the blame. However, as torn as I was between the knowledge that you had not violated me and my current distrust, I could not brush aside what you _had_ done. So I wanted and watched you to see if you would satisfy my trust. And then..." She turned to Eirik, and he felt his hands shaking as he sat under the gaze of her warm, amber eyes.

"And then there was the attack in Morthal," she said. "They were strangers, Imperial sympathizers, they were as close to your enemies as Clan Battle-Born. Yet you helped them, you personally put yourself at risk of imprisonment from the captain and carried little Jehanne to Falion!" She sighed.

"It was my fault, after all," Eirik said. "They kept us there on my account. If we had not stopped with them, they could have been safely in Morthal and none of that would have happened."

Mjoll said nothing for a while, her eyes gazing down at the floor. "When you left," she said. "I stayed behind momentarily to watch the ritual. Jehanne was cured and her family was more than happy. They asked me where you had went, they wanted to thank you for what you did to bring help to their little girl." She looked up at him, gazing into his brown eyes. "And then I realized just what you had done, and knew that no molester would have done the same for a child."

Eirik said nothing as he remained in place, listening to all that she said. His heart was beating frantically beneath his chest, though he knew not why.

"But there was another reason," she spoke at last.

"Concerning what?" he asked.

"Why I chose to give you a second chance," she replied. "Why I wept so after I learned the truth, and also why I am here."

Suddenly he saw something glistening just below her left eye. It cascaded down the painted side of her face, then gathered at the bottom of her chin: a small, pearly tear. He saw also that her hands were shaking. He reached out and took her hand in his to steady it and, to his surprise, she did not retract her hand or dissuade him.

"We've spent a long time together, you and I," she said, her voice trembling. "Yes, it has only truly been little less than three months, but I have stood at your side and at your back through many battles, into darkness and beyond, facing fire and death many times over. I have..." She sighed. "I have grown very fond of you, which was why I was brought to tears that night, for I had doubted you for no purpose and so hated myself for doubting my heart as well.

"After Morthal, I kept my distance from you both on the road and here in Whiterun, as I had things to attend to as I wrestled with myself and my own fears. But I am afraid no more. In all modesty, I have become a powerful warrior in my own right." She paused, her breath slow and heavy as she looked into Eirik's eyes.

"Remember what I asked you in Solstheim, while we watched the netches?" she asked.

Eirik nodded silently. Then Mjoll cast off her scarf and Eirik's heart stopped as he saw the reason. Upon her neck there lay an amulet upon a necklace of bronze. The amulet itself was carved with a small pearl of teal color in the center, with many leaf-like lines woven throughout the circular amulet. Mjoll looked upon it for a while, then looked back up at Eirik.

"I love you, Eirik." she said, voice trembling and tears in her eyes. "Even if this will rob me of my gift and make mortal like any other, I would be happy to stand at your side...until the Divines take us."

Eirik could not speak for sheer wonder of what he had just seen and heard. At last his answer came: it was an answer without words, merely a quiet nodding of his head, up and down. Mjoll smiled then wrapped her arms around him.

"And I have loved you as well," he said at last. "So that's it, then? You mean it?"

"Yes," she nodded vigorously. "Soon, we shall be married."

* * *

**(AN: Yes, it really just happened! Almost eight thousand words but every one of them were worth it in spades! Also, this story has now passed the 200,000 word count, being not only my longest story but a new first for me! And you all are witnesses to this awesomeness!)**

**(I honestly did plan this out, and am not speeding things up for my readers [though, currently, nobody has been reviewing: bad, bad readers! lol]. I will try to get an update soon, but then again I've been updating this story so swiftly, maybe I should take it down a notch and give you a few chapters with a digestible amount of words [say, 2000?] Nevertheless, I hope you've enjoyed it so far and I will continue to write this story, so don't you go anywhere!)**


	53. Twenty Fifth Day of Frostfall

**(AN: Wow, so many reviews already! I'm so grateful for all of you who have been reading my story. I'm also glad, _le fou_, that you liked the last chapter. As far as vampires and werewolves go, I haven't ruled that out. Also, yeah, I know that "go to hell" would be anachronistic in Nirn, but I honestly tried in the drafts to make something that sounded legit. Unfortunately, all of my variations of "go to Oblivion" sounded like something out of cheesy _Syfy_ movies, movies that are even worse than B, like _Mortal Kombat Annihilation_ or _Dungeons and Dragons_. I'll try to find some other way to put that in in the future where it won't sound cheesy.)  
**

**(Well, I've been reading up on viking battle tactics, and while, obviously, there aren't enough places for sea-raids in Skyrim, the vikings weren't exactly a band of disorganized berserkers. They had the shield wall, of course, and bows of about 90lbs in draw weight. Obviously, since the game features Stormcloak soldiers with bows, that will be of some influence on their battle tactics which, though probably not shown in this chapter, will definitely be shown in greater detail in a chapter to come.)**

* * *

**Twenty-Fifth Day of Frostfall**

In a Stormcloak camp somewhere in Eastmarch, the warriors were busy preparing for battle. Some were sharpening their swords, others swinging their axes against straw puppets donning Imperial helmets. Some had mighty bows, a hundred pound in draw weight, aimed at targets set up against which they practiced their aim. Others sat about the fire-pits, sharing stories and passing around food and plunder their fellows had caught on the latest raids against the Empire.

"Rider!" one of the sentries shouted. One of the bearskin officers picked up his axe and gathered some of the others in a loose formation, weapons held at the ready.

"Halt!" the officer shouted in a deep, rumbling voice. "This is a camp of the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. State your business, or why should we not run you through now?"

"Please, I'm a simple courier!" the horseman replied. "I bring a message from Whiterun to one Ralof of Riverwood. I was told he could be found here."

"Who told you someone of that name was here?" the officer asked.

"He said only that he was a kinsman Nord and a friend of the Stormcloaks," the courier replied.

"Well, in that case," the officer replied. "It seems your journey has not been in vain." He turned his back to the camp and shouted with a loud voice. "Ralof!"

From out of a group of young Stormcloak soldiers, the straw-headed Ralof appeared, wiping sweat from his brow with one hand while his ax was clenched still in the other. "What is it, bear friend?"

"A courier has arrived from Whiterun," the officer said. "He says he has a message for you."

Ralof approached the rider and held out his hand, into which the courier placed the letter then went on his way. Slowly, Ralof made his way back to the group he was training. One of them, a young Nord with hair that was almost black, sheathed his sword as he approached Ralof to see what the contents of the message were. After reading it, Ralof laughed.

"What is it?" the young man asked. "Good news, I hope."

"Very good news, Arvid," Ralof replied. "It seems my friend Eirik is getting himself married in one day's time! And to a true daughter of Skyrim, no less! Talos be praised!" Then Ralof's countenance fell. "The ceremony is taking place in the Temple of Mara in Riften, controlled now by the Empire."

"So?" Arvid asked. "You escaped the dragon attack at Helgen, so you've been telling us. What's a few Imperial scum to us?"

"Us?" Ralof asked.

"I'm coming with you," Arvid said. "My sword has been bloodless for too long. It would make a fine tale for the bards to sing at your friend's wedding, how two true sons of Skyrim cut their way through a legion of Imperial soldiers to honor their friend's wedding."

"I like you, Arvid," Ralof smiled, slapping Arvid's shoulder. "I like you good and well!"

* * *

Solitude, the capital of Skyrim. Even by those who considered Skyrim to be a backwater country of drunken straw-headed hicks, there were several places which captured the awe and admiration of even the strangers and visitors. Among them was this, the seat of the High King. It sat upon a high mountain overlooking the Sea of Ghosts to the north. The Blue Palace, which had once been home to Torygg the High King, sat upon an island of rock that jutted forth in a south-easterly direction away from the main girth of the mountain on which the city was built. Like Windhelm and the College of Winterhold, it was made of sturdy stone as rivaled even some of the castles in Cyrodiil for its might and majesty.

In the palace itself, there were many wealthy and influential people waiting to speak to Elisif the Fair, youngest of the Jarls of Skyrim and ruler of Solitude. She sat upon a throne in the great hall, flanked by General Tullius on her right and a red-haired Nord on her left. He was Falk Firebeard, her steward and most loyal of subjects. Near at hand stood another red-haired Nord, larger in stature than Falk and clad in heavy steel armor. He gazed with contempt upon those gathered before the Jarl, sycophantic toadies one and all. Nevertheless, as huscarl, it was his duty to guard Elisif with his life. Near about the throne there was a short Breton mage, keeping to the corners of the room and away from most of the main audience. Closer more to the throne were two Nords: a woman with light brown hair and a thin, clean-faced young man with bright golden hair. The man seemed rather self-possessed and spoke with many of the other people gathered before the Jarl.

Those who were gathered before the Jarl were dignitaries from all over Skyrim, as well as other parts of Tamriel. As this was also a city under Imperial rule, there were many non-humans as well. Very few were not present here, all of them vying to have a word or two with the Jarl of Solitude.

"She could be the High Queen once this rebellion is quelled," an ambassador from Hammerfell whispered to his aide.

At this, the blond-haired man pushed his way to the Redguard delegates and made the customary bow used as greeting among the Redguards.

"Pardon me, good visitors," the man said. "My name is Erikur, and I couldn't help but notice what you were speaking of."

"What concern is it to you?" the ambassador asked.

"Forgive me," Erikur replied with a tone of condescension. "But I practically own Solitude. Half of the businesses in Solitude owe me money, and I own the rest. The Jarl recognizes my importance, which is why I'm allowed to stay at court. She simply wouldn't be able to make due without me!"

"So," the Redguard ambassador asked. "What do you have to say?"

Erikur pressed close to the ambassador in a way that, by Nordic standards, was more than inappropriate. "Forgive me for speaking frankly, but I wouldn't put much stock in Elisif. She's a puppet ruler, with no real power or authority. If you want to know who the _real_ power in Solitude is, you need only look to her right." The ambassador looked as instructed. "Yes, that's right. If there's one thing that scum Ulfric is right about it's that the title of High King is nominal only: the Empire has the real power in Skyrim."

"Shameful!" the ambassador replied.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Erikur replied. "The Empire is good for business, and business is good for...ow!" At that moment, Erikur was struck across the side of his head by one from behind. The newcomer bowed to the ambassador and greeted him in typical fashion. He then complemented the sword at the ambassador's belt and the two rambled on in the native language of Hammerfell before the newcomer turned to Erikur.

"You're making quite a reputation for yourself as an incessant arse-kisser," the newcomer greeted.

"At least I'm not the Jarl's whore," Erikur hissed.

"Keep talking, Erikur," the newcomer said. "One day your words will fall on the wrong ears and then..." He chuckled. "...then no one will be able to save you."

Suddenly there was commotion downstairs and two of the red-clad Solitude guards approached the Jarl's throne. The large huscarl drew his weapon, but the Jarl commanded him to stay.

"Who is this woman," the Jarl asked the guards. Her voice was beautiful and seemingly wiser than her young years spoke. "And why have you brought her in so shamefully? Release her at once!"

"Yes, Jarl!" the guard replied. The woman between them was removed.

"Now, girl," Elisif said. "What business do you have for me?"

"Your pardon, my lady," the woman replied. "But I'm from Markarth. I received a messenger there from Riften who told me to send this message by a swift hand to one who holds berth at your court in Solitude."

"Did this person had a name?" Elisif asked.

"The sender said that he who sent the message gave himself no name," the woman said. "Although, he did say that the one who holds berth at your court would know him."

"And who is this person?" the Jarl asked again.

"Crixus, my lady." the woman replied.

At this, the newcomer pushed Erikur aside and strode through the crowd to the woman. He knelt down at her side and waved to her, gesturing that she give him the message. From out of a pouch hanging on her side, she produced the message. He tore the envelope open and examined the letter. He smirked, then folded the letter up and placed it in his bosom, then stood and turned to the Jarl.

"My lady," he said. "It seems that I have been called to Riften to oversee matters of a personal nature. I ask permission to leave your court and attend to this matter."

"You will be sorely missed," the Jarl replied.

"I promise, my lady," he said. "I will return as soon as my business is complete."

"Very well, Crixus. Approach my throne," Elisif gestured for Crixus to approach, and he did, kneeling before her as was customary. She smiled, aware that he knew the protocol of the court without having to be told so many times. "By my right as Jarl, I relieve you of duty for as much time as you see fit to attend to matters in Riften. But take warning, Crixus, for you have done me great service in the past and it will not be long ere I call you back into my service."

"As you wish, my lady," Crixus said. "I take my leave of your presence in thanksgiving for this gesture and promise that I shall return once my business is concluded."

* * *

Early on the morning of Loredas, the four and twentieth day of Frostfall, two riders a-horse arrived in Imperial-controlled Riften. One horse, purchased in the stables of Windhelm, bore greater burdens than the other, purchased in the stables of Whiterun. Atop the Whiterun bay sat Lydia the huscarl, unaccustomed to riding and so kept herself at a measurable pace. A little before her, on the stallion returned to him from where he had been found roaming free in Windhelm, sat Eirik Dragonborn, with Mjoll the Lioness seated behind him. They had ridden all that night from Breezehome to arrive in Riften by this date, for they would be married in short order.

They had not ridden from Whiterun in silence, for Mjoll constantly shared her many adventures throughout Tamriel with any who would listen, and at the very worst, Eirik had no other choice. While Lydia had expressed happiness at this union, she had remained icily silent on the ride from Whiterun to the Rift. At last, however, they came within sight of the northern towers of Riften and Lydia broke her silence.

"This city is under Imperial control," she said to Eirik. "How do you intend to enter without being noticed?"

"We'll walk up to the front gate and tell them the truth," Eirik replied. "Mara has not been banned, so they will not object to a marriage being performed in her temple."

"And what if they do?" Lydia asked.

"If they do," Eirik replied in jest. "Then all of Tamriel should rise up against the Empire." Mjoll chuckled at this.

Surprisingly, when they did arrive at the gates of Riften and Eirik told them that they were going to the Temple of Mara for a wedding, the guards parted and wished them well. Eirik tied up his horse and the stable, then he and Mjoll passed through the gates which opened up for them.

"It feels good to walk the streets of Riften again," Mjoll said happily. "Even considering the current leadership."

"I have to speak to the priests at the temple," Eirik said.

"I'll find Aerin," Mjoll said, as the two of them parted momentarily.

Eirik ran the rest of the way through the streets of Riften to the temple of Mara. While he was walking up the stairs towards the stave-style temple, he saw a small crowd gathered around a place near the back-side of the temple. Walking over there, he saw several Imperial soldiers with ropes tied around a statue of Talos which they were bringing down. In his frustration, he wanted to draw out his sword and tear them apart, but then he remembered his duties and turned towards the temple and pushed open the doors. There were several priests about in their orange robes, but Eirik was searching for one in particular: a Redguard by the name of Maramal. He found him kneeling before the altar which stood before a statue of Mara, the goddess of love, hooded with hands held open with palms facing upward and her eyes cast up, with brazen tears upon her face.

"Greetings, friend," Maramal greeted Eirik. "Blessings of Mara upon you."

"Hail, priest," Eirik replied. "I have come here because I would like..." He paused for a moment, considering once again the enormity of what he was going to say.

"Yes, my son?" Maramal asked.

"I would like to be married," Eirik finished.

"This is good news!" Maramal exclaimed. "Even in the darkest of times, Mara's blessings shine in the hearts of men and women of all races which blossom with love. Make yourself ready, my friend, for tomorrow you shall be a married man!"

"Thank you," Eirik replied. "Uh, I should ask, though, what should I first do as far as the customs of marriage? This is my first time doing this, after all."

"Of course, my child," Maramal replied. "I believe I've been here long enough to answer any questions you might have. Feel free to ask."

* * *

Sundas morn, the fifth and twentieth day of Frostfall, saw Riften as a hive of activity. People were coming and going to the temple of Mara, for there were no lack of poor in Riften and the priests in the temple of Mara often gave out charitable donations. Among the crowds of the poor were two shrouded with sackcloth hoods. These had come through much danger to this place to honor their friend's wedding.

"This is hardly befitting of a true son of Skyrim!" Arvid groaned. "We should have charged the gates and slaughtered these Imperial dogs!"

"Eager to be in Sovngarde, I see," Ralof chuckled. "Nevertheless, there will be a time when this town is returned to its rightful owners. Today, however, is not that day: today we honor Eirik's wedding and must do so alive. Come, we go into the temple now."

Inside the temple, there was light enough for all. The torches were lit and several rafters of the ceiling had been removed to allow light to flood into the temple interior. The wooden walls were streaming with the crimson banner of Mara, emblazoned with the knotted circle in gold-thread. There were many people standing about, but those guests who had been invited inhabited the pews of the temple. On the one side of the room there were many of the poor people of Riften seated in the pews. On the other side, there were two men wearing hoods, one at the back and another half-way towards the front. At the very front of the right-side there sat a young woman with dark hair, dressed in armor. Just as Ralof and Arvid took their seats, the doors of the temple were thrust open and a young Cyrodilian man walked into the chapel.

"It's time!" he exclaimed, then opened wide the doors and took his seat on the left-hand side of the pews of the temple.

Into the temple there walked a Nord woman in a white dress, with a garland of flowers in her red-golden hair. In her hands she bore a great-sword made of malachite. She approached the altar, where stood Eirik, dressed in a fine suit from the Radiant Raiment tailors of Solitude. When the woman approached the altar, she turned to Eirik and smiled. The priest, meanwhile, stood behind the altar and before the statue of Mara, raised his hands and began the benediction.

"Friends," he greeted. "The spirit of Mara be with you all on this blessed day! May you all heed the command of Mara, which tells us to live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family. This day, we gather under Mara's loving grace to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship: Eirik the Dragonborn and Mjoll the Lioness.

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all. May these two, whose hearts have been touched by the love of Mara, journey forth together in this life and in the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and in hardship."

Eirik noticed that Mjoll was beaming at him, yet her hands were shaking in his own as they held hands before the altar.

"I believe," Maramal spoke up. "That one of you has asked to share a few words of their own. Let that be spoken now."

Mjoll swallowed, then began.

"Eirik," she began. "From the moment I first saw you, I knew not what would happen. Surprised I was when I discovered that I found in you a companion for life. As surely as this sword in my hand proves, that you brought back what was most precious to me and gave to me a future once again, I now give my life to you on one condition only: that you continue to love and respect me as you have done before in the past, and that I be permitted, as is my right, to continue with you in all of your travels and share the good things and the bad together. For from this day, we are one and shall share all things as such."

Silence filled the temple, after which Maramal turned first to Mjoll. "Do you agree to be bound together in love, both now and forever?"

"Aye, I do." she said, turning back to Eirik with a smile on her face. "Now and forever."

"And do you," Maramal asked, turning now to Eirik. "Do you agree to be bound together in love, both now and forever?"

"I do," Eirik said confidently. "Now and forever."

"Therefore," Maramal said with happiness. "Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed!" He then looked at the pews and nodded. Aerin then appeared, holding two golden rings upon a pillow of red velvet. "May these rings, blessed by Mara's divine grace, protect each of you in your new life together." Eirik removed one of the rings from the pillow and placed it upon a finger of Mjoll's right hand, after which she did the same on his hand. Then, as she had done what felt like an eternity ago in Ivarstead, she seized his face with her hands and pressed her lips against his. There was great rejoicing.

Among the cheering and applause, Lydia was the first one to approach the couple and embrace Eirik.

"I am proud for you, my thane!" she said.

"Thank you, Lydia!" Eirik replied. Lydia said nothing to Mjoll but smiled at her, then took her seat. Or at least tried to, for at that moment, Aerin pushed aside her and threw his arms around Mjoll.

"Oh, Mjoll!" he sobbed. "It's going to be so lonely in Riften without you. How will we survive without your stalwart protection?"

"Easy, Aerin!" Mjoll laughed through tears. "I'm not going anywhere, not yet."

"You take care of her, Eirik!" Aerin said, turning to Eirik. "She's worth more than you'll ever know or appreciate!"

"That I can believe!" he retorted.

"My friend!" a voice spoke up. Eirik turned and saw Ralof standing there, a smile on his face. Eirik threw his arms around Ralof's shoulders.

"I'm glad that you came," Eirik said.

"Yes," Ralof said. "We had some trouble, but we came here regardless."

"We?" Eirik asked.

"Arvid, a young Man who has joined the rebellion," Ralof showed the young man to Eirik. They embraced and Eirik smiled.

"You do your ancestors proudly by your fine service," he said. "By one way or another, you shall dine with your fathers in Sovngarde."

"Aye, that is my greatest wish," Arvid nodded.

"Well, look what the horker dragged in!" a familiar voice stated.

"Marcurio," Eirik said, turning to the mage. Ralof and Arvid were meanwhile speaking to Mjoll, to whom Aerin was still clinging like a child to a lost dog. "I'm surprised to see you again."

"When I got word of what was happening, I knew I had to come here and see it for myself," Marcurio said. "You two are practically made for each other."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of slur against Nords?" Eirik asked.

"Not today," Marcurio smiled.

"But how did you know where and when we would be wed?" Eirik asked.

Marcurio chuckled and winked at Eirik. "You don't think I hear things?" He then shook Eirik's hand, then disappeared into the crowd as the proud Eirik turned back to Mjoll, who threw her arms around him again, amidst a sea of back-slaps and applause from those gathered about, especially Ralof and Aerin. Amidst the sea of well wishes and blessings from those around them, Eirik noticed that there was something in his hand. With Mjoll still in his arms, he saw that it was a wrapped piece of paper. Opening it up with one hand, he saw that it only had two words written upon it.

_Turn around._

He craned his neck around and saw a figure clad in a black hood standing at the back of the temple. He planted a kiss on Mjoll's lips, then told her that he would not be long as he extricated himself from the crowd and slowly made his way to the back. As he approached the shrouded one, he could guess who this was even without seeing his face.

"You know, you don't have to hide," Eirik said. "This is Imperial territory, after all."

"Is that any way to greet a guest at your wedding?" the voice of Crixus chuckled.

"I take it you're the one who told Marcurio about the wedding?" Eirik asked.

"You'd be right with that," Crixus said. "And as for your first question, it's because of your friends." He gestured to Ralof and Arvid. "They would have made a commotion with my presence at your wedding, and you know I hate drawing attention whenever I come and go."

"And what about you?" Eirik asked. "Run out of insults to throw my way?"

"Just shut up," Crixus replied. "Unless you want to spend your wedding night at the bottom of Lake Honrich." When Eirik looked as though he would take this threat seriously, Crixus laughed. "I'm not like you Nords, I know when to hold my tongue, and this would be the proper occasion. Which reminds me, I have something for you."

Crixus then pushed back his cloak and revealed a great-sword of finest craftsmanship. It had two hilts and a great blade engraved with many runes in both the Dragon and Nordic tongue.

"The Skaal have befriend many giants in their time," Crixus said. "Such great-swords they carry, and I was able to acquire one for you. The runes say in your tongue and in the tongue of the Greybeards a blessing of strength and power to whoever wields this sword. I felt it was a fitting gift to give you in particular."

"Why, thank you!" Eirik returned.

"Don't thank me," Crixus said. "Not yet, at least. Not until you've seen the gift I sent to Whiterun for your woman."

Eirik examined the great-sword once again, then turned to look at Crixus, but saw that he was gone once again. He turned back to his beloved, handing the sword to Ralof as he swept her up in his arms. For the first time in a very long count of days, Eirik was truly happy.

* * *

**(AN: Yay, Eirik and Mjoll are finally married!)**

**(Crixus makes another appearance, because we're just not done with him yet. Also, I'm not going to say explicitly why Erikur said that about Crixus, only that he does spend quite a bit of time with Jarl Elisif and Erikur is a bastard. As he is growing to respect Eirik more, he decided not to be a complete ass today, as it was Eirik's wedding.)**

**(Yes, they did get off easily, but you will soon see that any thoughts of a honeymoon will soon be over as there is never a lack of danger and trouble in Skyrim!)**


	54. Death and Glory

**(AN: Thank you once again for all the reviews. I'm glad everyone liked the last chapter.)**

**(I think a better name for this chapter, though it would be breaking the fourth wall, would be "Why Does This Never Happen In-Game?" Honestly, I wish things like this actually _did_ happen. Which things, might you ask? Well just sit back and read what I think is an awesome thing, quite likely, that got left out of the game entirely.)**

* * *

**Death and Glory**

Eirik and Mjoll were practically escorted from the Temple of Mara to Aerin's house by the guests and priests of the temple. There was rejoicing and merry-making of all sorts around them and, later on, those of low moral standing would repair to the Bee and Barb to share drinks in the name of the newlywed couple. Ralof and Arvid bade them farewell once they left the temple, as they had to return to their posts, though they could not say where, for fear of being overheard by Imperial spies. There was no sign of Marcurio or Crixus after the brief encounter in the temple.

When at last they had passed through the doorway of Aerin's house, with the young Cyrodilian closing the door behind them, Eirik and Mjoll turned to each other and gazed into each other's eyes for a while.

"Well," Aerin spoke up. "You were certainly away for a while, Mjoll. I want to hear about everything that happened."

"Aerin..." Eirik began.

"No, it's alright," Mjoll dismissed. "Where should we begin?"

"After you left Riften...again!" Aerin said as he took a seat. Eirik brought forth a seat for Mjoll and then one for himself and then they began. Starting with Mjoll and with additions by Eirik, they regaled him with all that had befallen them since they left Riften to join the Dawnguard. Mjoll left out any details about the encounter with the drunk Breton in the Frozen Hearth, and Eirik was very grateful to her for that. Aerin listened intently as they spoke of Alftand and the dark realm of Blackreach.

"It's amazing!" Aerin exclaimed.

"Now, if you'll please," Eirik said, hoping and praying to all of the Nine that Aerin would take a hint.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Well, uh..." Eirik stammered. "I mean, this is our wedding night."

"Yes, I know that," he replied with a smile and a matter-of-fact tone.

"Well, I'm not quite sure, but I believe something happens on a couple's wedding night," Eirik continued, but then halted as he saw Mjoll biting her lower lip and lowering her gaze.

"But...this is my house," Aerin said. "I shouldn't be put out of my own house!"

"Oh, please, Eirik," Mjoll turned to him. "Let him stay."

Eirik sighed. "It is, after all, your house."

"Thank you, both of you!" Aerin smiled. "Well, I've got to make sure everything is prepared for the night. Don't want the Thieves Guild sneaking up on us in our sleep, now would we?" He went about the house, making sure everything was locked and safe. Eirik, meanwhile, made his way up to one of the bedrooms at the top story, with Mjoll's hand wrapped around his own.

"So," she said at last. "We have our whole lives together ahead of us!" She smiled.

"Aye," Eirik replied with a smile as well. "You know, we're together now."

"Aye, that we are, my love," Mjoll said.

"So, then..."

"I have been wondering," she spoke up. "Where will we live? Yes, I know, we can travel together and share in each other's adventures well enough. But you have a house in Whiterun and I live here in Riften with Aerin. It would not do to have us both living separately, don't you think so?"

"Oh, of course!" he replied.

"So?" she asked.

"Well," Eirik began. "I have no objections to Breezehome, nor to this house. However, I have often felt that I would like to build a house of my own. I am, after all, a woodsman at heart and it would be a great honor for me to build you a house in which we may both live."

"Aye, and I would be honored to have you build me a house," Mjoll replied. "But, Skyrim is in turmoil and there is little time for house-building. If ever there is peace, we shall think of such things once again. For the present..."

"For the present," Eirik stepped closer to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. A warm feeling, starting at his loins, began to envelop his entire body. He pressed his lips against Mjoll's, and they kissed again and again. His heart was racing, yearning for something he had wanted since...

Suddenly Aerin came running up the stairs.

"There's a courier at the door," he said. "He wants to speak with you, Eirik. He says he has a message for you."

"Can't it wait?" he asked.

"No, the messenger insisted that you read his message at once!" Aerin exclaimed.

With a frustrated sigh, Eirik planted a kiss on Mjoll's cheek then walked back down the stairs. As he pushed open the doors, he saw the courier standing in the doorway with two letters for him. He took them both and opened the first one, which bore in wax the emblem of Ysgramor's ax: the sigil of the Companions.

_To Eirik, newly-initiated into the Companions_

_Your shield-brothers call you to Jorrvaskr once again. There have been increased attacks against the Companions. That you may prove yourself worthy to join our ranks, I, Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, orders you to return to Jorrvaskr and to speak with Farkas, who will guide you on your final task of initiation._

_Sovngarde be the end of your warrior's trail._

_Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions. Written by the hand of Vignar Grey-Mane._

Eirik sighed. He had found the Companions to be good company, but this was the most untimely order he could have ever received. He tucked it under his arm, then opened the next letter, sealed with the emblem of the bear: only one person in all of Skyrim used that seal.

_From Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and, by right of combat, successor to Torygg as High King of Skyrim, to Eirik the Unblooded, salutations and greetings._

_I have ordered my finest warriors to take Morthal. Your failure to move against Whiterun in a timely fashion has cost us Riften, and could very well cost us the war as well. While the Empire bolsters their forces in Cyrodiil, I will make my march towards Solitude to strike at the head of the serpent and cut down the military governor General Tullius and burn the Thalmor Embassy to the ground. Morthal shall be the first step in reclaiming our rightful land. As your future king, I order you to join the fight in Morthal immediately. Do so and you will have proven your loyalty. Refuse and there will be no more second chances._

_Talos keep you,  
_

_Ulfric Stormcloak_

Eirik groaned as he crumbled up the letter and placed it in his bosom. The letter from Kodlak he placed it there as well, but now he was profoundly upset. Once more his loyalty was in question for not taking the fight openly to the Empire. He turned about and made his way back up the stairs to where Mjoll was waiting for him. His wedding night would have to wait for another day, as he was too deep in thought to be in a lusty mood.

Upstairs, they entered the same bed without a second thought and Eirik lay there silently, gazing up at the wooden roof. He tried to think about what he should do. The quest to destroy Alduin was the most pressing, and now this happened? He had also been ordered by the Dawnguard to investigate a ruin somewhere in the southern reaches of the Pale. That had almost been completely driven from his mind until this point. Already it felt as though he had too much on his mind as it was and more than he could handle. His concentration was suddenly broken when Mjoll spoke up.

"I hate dresses," she mused. "They're too...flimsy and the skirt gets in the way of my movement. I only wore this dress because it was our wedding, but if I had my way, I would burn it." She sighed. "Still, I think I shan't burn it, but I shall never wear it again, unless you ask me to, love."

"Hmm?" he turned around towards her.

"Is something on your mind, Eirik?" Mjoll asked.

He sighed again. "Yes, there is. Something very important has just come up."

"What is it?" she asked. "And what could possibly be more important than our wedding?"

"I've received a summons from Windhelm," Eirik began. "I am to report to the front-lines immediately, or else be counted as a turncoat."

"Divines, no!" Mjoll sighed.

"If I accept," he added. "It would mean I would have to leave you, presumably forever until the battle is won."

There was silence for a space, then the sheets rustled, the straw beneath the blankets creaked, and Mjoll's hand gently touched his shoulder.

"Who said anything about leaving me?" she asked.

"What?" he turned around. "You want to come with me?"

"You have no choice," Mjoll smiled. "You agreed to that when you married me." She leaned over and kissed him.

"So I remember," Eirik said.

"When do we leave?" she asked.

"Tomorrow at first light," Eirik replied.

"Good," she smiled. "I'm itching for a fight."

* * *

In the morning, Eirik was outside of Riften at the stables, strapping on the rest of his armor. At his side, Mjoll was rubbing crushed woad-berries on the left side of her face while Lydia was leading their horses out of the stables. As they were leaving Aerin's house, Eirik told Lydia of their plans. Predictably, she was miffed at being excluded from the chance of going into battle.

"Have I not paid enough for leaving your side?" she asked. "Please, my thane, let me stand at your side once again as your sword and shield!"

"Someone has to stay behind and keep Breezehome safe," Eirik said.

"That's bullshit," Lydia exclaimed.

"It's smart," Eirik stated. "The Empire owns Whiterun. Your presence there could be useful to feed us information."

Lydia's countenance fell, but she replied. "As you wish, my thane. But I am a warrior, not an informant."

"Still, you can be of more use there than in the field," Eirik stated. To this, Lydia was not happy. Nevertheless, she mounted her horse as Eirik gave Mjoll a hand onto the back of his horse. They would have a long way before they reached the camp at the northern foot of the Throat of the World. With fair weather and few encounters, they could reach the camp before nightfall.

The ride from Riften down into the marshes of the Eastmarch were more or less uneventful. A wolf pack tried to attack their horses as they were coming down the mountains, but a few arrows shot at them from atop Eirik's horse took one down and sent the rest running. Once they were down, they decided to turn immediately west and ride hard and fast towards the camp. Rumors circulating both in Riften and in Windhelm spoke of a dragon being sighted somewhere in the marshes. They saw no dragon, but as they approached the long, wooded hill country north-east of High Hrothgar and immediately east of Valtheim towers, where the White River tumbled down the cliff and into the marshland, they saw a giant leading a herd of mammoths farther south. Eirik and Mjoll remembered the giant they had encountered in Blackreach and so chose not to engage this one out of respect.

Unfortunately, as they were passing the towers and made their way into Whiterun hold, the clouds, which before clung to the heights of the Velothi Mountains and the Throat of the World, had now settled down in the lower lands. The distant growl of thunder echoed as the sun was making its way towards the Reach. Lydia cursed their luck, which had so often granted them fair weather only to turn on them now: mostly, however, this grumbling was her own doing, for she would have to continue the rest of the way to Whiterun and would likely be caught in the midst of the oncoming storm.

They bade farewell to Lydia and then turned their way southwards, towards the Throat of the World. Eirik insisted that they wait until the image of Lydia astride her horse disappeared before continuing onward. The rain and the twilight, however, had other plans. They could feel a harsh, cold wind coming down from the mountains and the night was already starting to descend about them within minutes of Lydia leaving their company. Urging their horses onward, up the rocky slopes of the mountain, they set off south. Moments later, three scouts appeared from out of the rocks nearby. Each of them had bows in hand, drawn back and ready to fire, all of them aimed at them.

"State your business!" one cried out.

"I am a friend of the Stormcloaks," Eirik said. "I have been summoned here to make ready for battle."

The scouts slacked their hands on their bows, and one of them approached Eirik and Mjoll, a sword drawn in his hand. Eirik saw Mjoll reaching for Grimsever and one of the scouts fitting an arrow back into his bow-string.

"What is your name and rank?" the soldier asked.

"Eirik, called Unblooded," he replied.

"Hmm," the soldier replied. "The bear-friend will have to see for certain. Come this way." The soldier then gave swift orders to the other scouts, then they came down from their hiding places and led Eirik and Mjoll's horses through the rest of the way towards their camp. It was bustling with soldiers wearing blue tabards, all of them storing their gear in cured hides and tarps in preparation for the oncoming storm. The horses the soldiers led to a small hitching post where they were tied up with several other horses by a trough of water. This done, Eirik and Mjoll dismounted and they made their way to the main tent, where one of the officers wearing the bear skin was waiting for them before a map of Skyrim.

"Captain, sir," the soldier said to the bear-friend. "I found these two approaching the camp. The man says he's Eirik Unblooded, a friend of the Stormcloaks sent here to join us in battle."

"Hmm?" the large captain said, looking up from the table to Eirik. "So? What's your story?"

"I was sent this message from Ulfric Stormcloak," Eirik began. "It has summoned me to..."

"Give me that!" the captain ordered. "And pray to the gods your story's true." The soldier removed the letter from Eirik's hands and gave it to the captain, who spent a few moments reading it before he furled it up and threw it on the table. "This seems to be in order." He turned to Eirik. "You're late, Unblooded."

"We've traveled from Riften," Eirik replied.

"Is that so?" the captain laughed. "Well, then, you won't have much time to rest up for the battle, then, will you? We leave in the morning, make sure you're ready."

Eirik and Mjoll then left the main tent and made a quick search of the tents, searching for anywhere to get out of the rain that was threatening to come down upon their heads at any moment. Already they could hear the cry of the storm-crow far above their heads in the heights of High Hrothgar. Soon they would be soaked, and as Eirik knew all too well, a drenched soldier was not a well-fighting one. Just then he heard a familiar voice calling out to him.

"Eirik, you magnificent bastard!" the voice said. Turning about, Eirik laughed as he saw Ralof walking towards him, arms open and a smile on his face. Eirik embraced his friend, then pulled back to share a few words with him. "It's not been but two days since we were last in Riften. What brings you here?"

"I have been summoned here," Eirik said.

"To do your duty to Skyrim, I reckon!" Ralof stated, then looked over his shoulder at Mjoll. "And I see your woman is with you as well."

"I am no man's woman!" Mjoll retorted. "I am Mjoll the Lioness, married to Eirik and still my own person. He respects that, I expect you to or there will be problems between us!"

"A true daughter of Skyrim, this one!" Ralof stated proudly, then turned to Mjoll. "I meant no disrespect by it, trust me." He chuckled, then turned to Eirik. "Do you have somewhere to stay here in the camp or do you plan to stand out in the rain all night?"

"Actually, we don't," Eirik replied. "We just came here from Riften and are looking for someplace to stay."

"Join our tents," Ralof said. "I think we might have an empty spot or two. Old Brynling fell in a skirmish with the Imperials and now dines with his ancestors in Sovngarde. A fine death for a warrior and a Nord: may Talos grant us the same if it is our fate tomorrow."

"Aye," Eirik replied. "So may it be."

They came to the tent of the company to which Ralof belonged and were given shelter for the night and a place to stay, which both Eirik and Mjoll were grateful for receiving. Their timing could not have been better, for as they were climbing into the tent, the sound of rain pouring down upon the tent-skins was heard throughout the camp. The rest of the soldiers, save for the sentries, who were clad in heavy cloaks and hoods, retired to their tents and tried to stay warm as the night was descending upon the mountain-side. As they were weary from the long march, Eirik and Mjoll had not much need for staying up and so she fell asleep while he remained awake, unable to sleep as the night fell about them. Long did the ghosts of those he had slain haunt his vision before at last sleep closed his eyes and he drifted into their arms.

* * *

"Wake up!" a voice cried out near at hand.

Eirik was roused from sleep by the hand of Mjoll, who was already awake. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and looked about him, seeing that it was still dark outside of the tent. Beyond he could see the glow of torches around them: it seemed as though the camp was on fire.

"What is it?" he asked.

"We're moving out," she replied. "They want to arrive in Hjaalmarch to aide the main company coming out of Dawnstar and Windhelm with daylight to spare."

"I see," Eirik stated, slowly pushing himself up when a bucket of cold water was dumped onto his face. Soaking, he turned and saw Ralof standing at the entrance of the tent door, holding a bucket that had collected rain-water during the night and a smile on his face.

"Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead, my friend," Ralof stated. "Up with your arse, Eirik: today is a fine day to die."

"That was rude of you!" Mjoll returned.

"I'm coming, don't worry yourself," Eirik sputtered. He then searched about his bed-roll for his gear, which he began equipping as swiftly as he could. At last, he was thrown a blue scarf, emblazoned in silver thread with the emblem of the Bear of Windhelm: this was the mark of the Stormcloak rebels, the blue scarf, cloak or tabard bearing the icon of the bear. He wrapped it around his neck with pride, then took up his sword and girded it upon his back.

Once outside, he saw that the hillside beneath the Throat of the World was scattered with the light of torches in great numbers. Weapons were being girded and men were making prayers to Talos or singing battle hymns from the days of Skyrim's past, of a time before the Empire. At last a horn sounded and the division began to move out. Eirik and Mjoll, thankfully, had arrayed themselves in time to join Ralof's division and were soon on the march, advancing with the army before dawn.

By morning's first light, they were now well on their way across the eastern border of Whiterun Hold, with the red sun rising behind their backs, warming them after the cold rain of the previous night. In the distance, they could hear a giant roaring as if to cheer on the army to their doom or threaten them if they came too close to his lair. They paid him no heed as they marched onward, first northward then steadily making their way west, towards the marshy hold of Hjaalmarch, where the holy battle for the liberation of Skyrim would begin this day.

At last, as the golden disc of the sun was climbing high in the sky above them, they saw in the distance a line of black against the gray-brown of the eaves of the marshes. They had come a long way and Hjaalmarch lay before them. Eirik, who had traveled this way many times before, knew what their plan would be without even having to ask. He had read the letter from Ulfric and divined his purpose: take Hjaalmarch and the road to Solitude, the seat of Tullius' military government, is a shorter one. To take Hjaalmarch, defeat the Imperial camp and march on the town, hoping that the guards put up little resistance and the Jarl chooses to go peacefully. Either way was risky and so close to Solitude, deep within Imperial territory, as well as a threat of attack from Whiterun, this was a risky battle.

The army of the Stormcloaks arrayed themselves in the typical shield wall, with the shield-brothers and sisters at the front-lines and those with the larger weapons behind them. Third in line were the archers, whose bows drew over a hundred pounds of resistance. Ralof would be one of the front-line troops, while Eirik and Mjoll were among those behind them, bearing heavy weapons such as the great-sword, heavy battle-ax or war-hammers. As they stood there in line, a step away from death, the bear-friends of the Stormcloak army strode out before the lines and spoke words to their troops.

"Sons of Skyrim!" the one from the Whiterun camp began. "Those milk-drinking bastards across the field believe that we should all bow down to elvish rule and deny mighty Talos his rightful godhood! They are on Nordic land and we will make them pay for trespassing on the land of our fathers! Fight or die well, brothers and sisters, remember your oaths, and whet your fury against those Imperial dogs! Victory or Sovngarde!"

Cries and chants arose from the soldiers, many of them banging sword and ax against shield and causing so great a noise that Eirik felt as though they had created with their own power a Thu'um of might that strengthened shaking limb and wavering heart. He joined them in crying out, and heard at his side Ralof and Arvid crying out as well, then lastly Mjoll adding her voice to theirs.

"Advance!" the bear-friend shouted.

The shield-wall made its way forward first, shields raised while those behind shouted insults at the Imperial army and yearned to wade through their blood and bodies as though they were water. Suddenly, a hail of arrows came flying towards the Stormcloak ranks from behind the Imperial phalanx. The shield-wall held many of them off, but some fell among their feet or found their mark in the soldier's shoulders, faces or knees. Mjoll was struck on the chest, but the arrow was turned by her breastplate. In reply, those Stormcloak archers in the rear fired off a few rounds. Whether they hit or not Eirik could not guess, for the shield-wall kept him from seeing the enemy. Though, he surmised, they held their shields in place and deflected the volley. He would have something for them which no amount of Cyrodilic steel could repel.

"Open!" the bear-friend cried. The shield-wall broke open, revealing before Eirik a line of Imperial soldiers armed with tower-shields and the Cyrodilic gladius swords.

"For Skyrim!" Eirik shouted, drawing out his Nordic great-sword. At his side, the others drew out their weapons and charged at the enemy hosts, blood-thirst in their eyes. Eirik kept his eyes at the foremost soldiers, breathed in, then shouted: "_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The front-line of Imperial soldiers were broken by the unrelenting force of Eirik's Thu'um. Those directly before him were thrown backwards about the length of a bow-shot. Many were knocked against each other and fell backwards like wheat before the scythe. The warriors with their heavy weapons, with Eirik at the forefront, charged into the fray, taking advantage of the chaos caused by Eirik's Shout to reek havoc among the Imperial ranks. Tower shields were crushed by swords and war-hammers or pulled out of hands by battle-axes. Helms were dented and shattered as skulls cracked and crushed beneath the weight of Stormcloak blows. Voices were lifted up in cry of battle-shouts or wails of pain as blades cut flesh and limbs and heads were severed by Nordic steel.

None of the Imperial soldiers dared approach the heavily-armed warriors, who fought with berserker rage. They backed away from them in a ring, fearing to fire into them with arrows for fear of hitting their own men. Meanwhile, the front-lines of the Imperial legion were being harassed by the shield-wall, which ever and anon gave way to allow Stormcloak bear-friends and berserkers to harass the lines. Eirik was among them, hacking Imperial soldiers to pieces with his great-sword. Suddenly he felt something bump into his back and swung about, ready to hack off another head with his sword. His sword met another sword in mid-air and he halted as he saw the one at his back was none other than Mjoll.

"Look out!" Mjoll shouted as an Imperial soldier broke ranks, seizing the moment to attack Eirik while he was distracted. She thrust Grimsever forward, impaling the soldier and lifting him up a good foot off the ground before she turned the sword's point down and he fell back. Eirik then saw the line of tower shields coming towards them as the Imperials moved as a single unit now. Eirik brought his sword down upon a shield, and while his strike didn't crush the shield, it knocked the soldier to the ground. He then drove his sword into the soldier's neck, then kicking his fellow in the groin as he approached to attack. The shield section was now broken and the Imperials moved to close it up, but Mjoll sent a blow down upon two of their tower shields that shivered them in two.

But then Eirik was hit by a shield and pushed backwards. He turned and saw that part of the Imperial shield-wall was reforming and one of their number had struck him. The soldier was drawing out his gladius and making towards Eirik to run him through. Then suddenly the soldier cried out and fell backwards among his comrades, an ax sticking in the corner of his neck. Suddenly he found himself within the shield-wall of the Stormcloaks again and a familiar face at his side.

"How many?" Ralof asked.

"What?" Eirik retorted.

"How many Imperials have you killed?" Ralof repeated. "My count is currently at twelve."

"Twelve?" Eirik laughed. "I've slain at least sixtee..." The Stormcloak shield wall pressed against the Imperial wall and Eirik shoved his sword over the wall and ran it through the neck of an Imperial on the other side just as the Nords backed away. "Seventeen!"

"There's plenty for the both of us!" Ralof laughed. "Loser buys the winner drinks at the Sleeping Giant, may the best man win!"

"You're on!" Eirik replied as the shield-wall struck again. This time he looked out for Mjoll, whom he had lost during the fray against the Imperials. Just then, the soldier at his side cried out as a gladius, aimed from the Imperial side, struck him in the neck and he fell to the ground. Eirik took up his shield and joined the shield-wall as they prepared to charge into the press again. His strength and size, however, was enough that when his shield met the Imperials, he pushed under and threw the soldier over his back and into the midst of the Stormcloak army. He threw his shield at one of the Imperials, then drew out his seax to deliver a final blow to the soldier he had debilitated.

But the soldier's helmet had fallen off and Eirik saw a fresh-faced, red-haired young Nord man lying on the ground, looking up at the giant of a man with a blue scarf about his neck, ready to end his life. Hardly a man this youth of seventeen winters could have been, hardly old enough to have slept with a woman. It was in that moment that Eirik remembered that on the other side were not only Cyrodilians like Crixus, who thought the Nords mindless barbarians who killed for fun, but fellow Nords as well.

His moment of thought was interrupted as the shield-wall pushed back for a second march and a Stormcloak soldier drove her sword into the young soldier's neck. Furthermore, there were now cries of "Horsemen!" from the soldiers in the shield-wall. Turning about, Eirik saw a detachment of Imperial cavalry striking at the Stormcloak's left side. Eirik drew out his sword and readied to jump over the shield-wall and attack the horses. They wouldn't stand a chance, not now when he could shout without fear of damaging himself.

A shadow passed over the field of battle, darkening the morning's light. For one moment all eyes looked up, then a loud roar and fire rained down upon the two armies. The hind-legs of the dragon seized one of the Imperial horsemen, horse and rider together, and threw them far over the battlefield. It then circled around and roared another gulf of consuming fire down upon the armies. By now, everyone was shouting "Dragon!" and cowering beneath their shields, while archers from both sides were now sending arrows at each other and the dragon. Memories of Helgen came back to Eirik's mind, for even now as then, the Imperials would sooner slaughter the Stormcloaks then put aside their differences against a dragon attack.

But his mind came back to the present as he saw those in the Imperial lines and those among the Stormcloaks cowering beneath their shields. Others threw down their weapons and fled, issuing cries to the all the Divines - even Talos among those Imperials who had grown up in Skyrim - to save them or bring a savior to liberate them from the dragon. Eirik knew what he had to do as he pushed aside his shield-brothers and walked out into the fray, eyes gazed at the dragon. The great wyrm was now whirling up above in the sky, roaring violently and breathing fire down upon the armies.

"Come down, dragon!" Eirik shouted. His voice seemed small and would not carry over the din of battle. He could not see arrows flying towards him as thick as hail. He had no shield and there was no place to hide, but hide he would not.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted at the arrows. Many of them were thrown backwards, where they fell harmlessly as twigs upon Imperial armor. Some, however, hit the ground about Eirik. Suddenly he cried out as one struck him in the arm, in a breach between his steel plates. Just then, however, the dragon landed directly in front of him, its huge snout issuing a low growl as its yellow, snake eyes examined the little human who had spoke with the Thu'um.

"_Dovahkiin_..." the dragon grumbled, scrutinizing Eirik carefully. "_Voth ahkrin hin yah dinok._"

"It will not be my end, but yours!" Eirik replied.

"So..." the dragon replied. "You dare to speak as a _dov_ yet come before me babbling in your _bruniik_-tongue?" The dragon laughed. "_Zu fen diivon hin!"_

The dragon's head lunged towards Eirik, but he moved aside to avoid being swallowed. But just in time, for his body caught the weight of the dragon's head and he was thrown to the ground. Again the snake-like head reared up and swung down to attack Eirik once again. He rolled aside, but then saw something hit the ground mere inches away from his face: an arrow.

The dragon looked at the two armies, then laughed again and roared a typhoon of fire at both of them. With a shout, Eirik drove his sword at the dragon's head and bit deep, piercing the dragon's hide. It roared again and swung its head about, looking for the gnat which had thus stung its pride. One again arrows came down upon the dragon from both sides, but it had enough and spread its great wings.

"_Wuld!_" Eirik shouted. Throwing himself into a whirlwind sprint, he soared after the dragon, managing to seize its lobed tail just in time as it took off. The howling cold winds bit at his hands as he griped the sharp scales of the dragon's body, eager to climb onto its back and deliver a serious blow into its body or head. But the dragon swerved about, aiming to sweep down upon the Stormcloak army and reek more havoc. As its tail thrashed about, Eirik had to hold on for dear life or else slide off the dragon's tail and face a long fall to his death below. This put him in great pain, for his left arm had been pierced by an arrow, which still clung to his skin and made gripping and holding on for his life torturous.

"_Yol...Toor Shul!_" the dragon roared. Eirik closed his eyes as he saw the ranks of the Stormcloaks catching fire, screams and cries of the dead, dying and burning rising up even to his ears high above, climbing the dragon's back. Then the screams faded, then the dragon roared again and this time, from the different voices and commands he could hear as well, Eirik guessed that the dragon had flown over the Imperial lines and breathed fire upon them as well. From above, with his eyes closed, Eirik noticed that they were the same when they died.

Slowly, inch by profoundly painful inch and through every roll and spin the dragon made through the cold Northern air, Eirik had crawled his way up to the dragon's massive body and was now wondering which hand to grip the dragon's scales with while he readied his sword. His sword-hand was his right, but his left hand now pained him greatly from gripping the scales that he feared he might, in a moment of weakness, loosen his grip and go flying to his death. Nevertheless, a blow with his left-hand, weakened as it was, would not be as strong and might not pierce the dragon's hide. All of these questions flew through his head in a matter of a few moments no longer than three blinks of the eye, for the dragon gave him no time for thinking overmuch, or for any thinking at all.

At last Eirik decided he would wait until the dragon was flying in the air, parallel to the ground, before he would let go of the dragon's scales, thrust his sword into a chink between two scales and pray to the gods that he could hold on through the gusts of cold wind that tore at him atop the scaly back of the fire-breathing beast. With a loud cry, surely giving away his position, he drew out his sword and drove it into the dragon's flesh. He was suddenly thrown about like a mouse in the jaws of a cat as the dragon thrashed about in agony from the deep bite of the Nordic steel blade. All he could do to keep himself from death was to hold on to the hilt and hope that the sword didn't break.

His bite was deeper than he thought. The dragon was now so wounded that it could not hold itself in the air without great pain and so flew towards the ground. Eirik held on as the dragon's feet landed on the ground, shaking his hold. But now was his chance as the dragon limped and hobbled on the snowy, rime-clad ground. With as much strength as he could, Eirik tore out the sword and slid down off the dragon's back. Fortunately, his legs were still working and he ran towards the dragon's neck, thrusting upward into the under-side of the dragon's neck. The beast roared and spewed blood black as ink from the wound in its neck, flailing about wildly before it finally collapsed to the ground. Eirik breathed sigh of relief, then approached the recently dead dragon.

For a moment, Eirik paused to catch his breath and examine where he was at the moment. He could tell first off that he was high up in the mountains, for below he could see the marshes of Hjaalmarch stretching out in mist-clad fens below and before him. Beyond he could see the mountains and at their feet, what looked like the keel of the Blue Palace of Solitude. Looking back down, he saw that he could not place the field of battle anywhere. The dragon had taken him quite a long way from the battlefield. He looked about and suddenly gave out a cry as he saw something near at hand, something quite alarming, approaching the dragon's body.

Miraak.

"Well done, Dragonborn," the Nordic dragon priest said. "I'll take that one." He reached out his hands and Eirik saw the fiery essence burning off the dragon's bones and swirling its way around Miraak's outstretched hands.

"_Fus..._" Eirik began in vain, but he had no chance to finish his Thu'um. The image of Miraak lowered his hands and turned around to Eirik.

"_Gol...Hah Dov!_" the ghost of Miraak shouted.

Eirik's voice suddenly went silent. He reached for his sword, but then saw his hands falling lame at his sides. In horror, he watched helplessly as his knees buckled and he fell into the snow at Miraak's feet: unable to move, unable to fight this overwhelming control over his entire body.

Miraak chuckled. "Yes, that's right. Soon all will bow before me as you do now."

"Finish it!" Eirik challenged. "Kill me! Or can't you, huh? You have the power to steal my dragon souls but you can't kill me?"

"Soon, Dragonborn," Miraak laughed. "Very soon..." Then he vanished like a haze of mist.

* * *

**(AN: Yes, that is possibly one of the most epic things that could possibly happen in _Skyrim_ and yet never really does: a big battlefield and then a dragon attacking during the battle.)**

**(Also, isn't it just great, not having a system where you get one year off warfare or hard-labor if you're newlywed? No regard that you could die and therefore never have children and your family line die out with you [honestly, all of Tamriel doesn't have the over-population problems of the US, I think their people can afford to have children], just ship you off whenever your country/leaders needs you?)**

**(Lol, enough of that. What did you think? Yes, Ralof and Eirik keeping a count of their kills is based on _Lord of the Rings_ but it was in the game proper, so I thought I'd keep that in there. Also, towards the end, yes I am hammering in that Miraak is a douche, but I am also trying to get you to see something very important about him. It should be obvious.)**


	55. Awakening

**(AN: Yay, reviews! I got a hilarious mental image, _Dany le fou_, when you said that about all of Skyrim's problems coming to knock on Eirik's door. As for _Xbamex_, all I can say right now is that Lydia is more jealous of Eirik. As for, well, you know, I _might_, emphasis on 'might', be able to speed things along, but I have to think about the context of the story as well as my own time-line which I have written out.)  
**

**(As you have guessed, I'm going into _Dawnguard_ for this chapter [i haven't really found a use for Durnehviir in-game], so I want to lay a few ground-rules which I might have covered already but want to make sure everyone knows. The vampires in _Skyrim_ appear in my mind as closer to Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ and the vampires in _Van Helsing_ [NOT the anime tv-show "Helsing"], as they have the super strength and magic powers and can shape-shift [well, some of them]. However, for the physical encounters, and there will be some, I don't want Eirik to have _too_ many with full-fledged vampires [as opposed to a fledgling or "bug-eater" like Mr. Renfield] because, in the series finale of _Deadliest Warriors_, they showed that vampires could cave in a human's head with just one blow. Obviously that creates a] an unfair advantage and b] a rather interesting challenge both for Eirik and for me. And in case you were wondering, no...NONE OF MY VAMPIRES WILL _EVER_ SPARKLE!)**

**(Lol, as you can tell, I do not like _Twilight_ at all. Besides it's poor writing, lame characters and questionable morals, I was in the process of writing my own vampire story [based on two sibling vampires who had been "adopted" by Dracula and then sort of fell apart, drifted through history and ended up sparking a thermonuclear war between humans and vampires], but that was in the works just as _Twilight_ was becoming a big hit and EVERYBODY was jumping on the vampire bandwagon. So that story has been put on indefinite hold [just like my other stories stored on my flash-drive which had been stolen recently]. Thankfully, in the context of _Skyrim_, I can explore vampirism to my heart's content without fear of unoriginality.)**

* * *

**Awakening**

Eirik slowly discovered that he had control over his body once again and walked into the shelter of a nearby cave. Once again he felt powerless and impotent before Miraak, who had not only stolen the dragon which he himself had rightly slain, but had used his own Thu'um to dominate Eirik and put him under his control. It was more than he could have deemed possible, but even more frustrating it meant that even if he were able to somehow defeat Alduin, his death would mean nothing as Miraak would claim it for his own.

Suddenly, while he was standing in the mouth of the cave, he heard voices echoing from deeper inside. They were laughing, but not the jovial kind of laugh that friends share over a drink, but the laugh of victors who revel over their foolish adversaries who fight on though all hope is lost. Then the talk turned to vain complimenting of someone whom they had captured but had put up a good fight.

"The others were no match for him," a voice said, in a voice that was like a snake's hiss. "Jeran and Bresath..."

"Ha!" another voice, belonging to a woman, laughed. "Their arrogance was becoming insufferable: they deserved what they got."

"I hope another one comes in soon!" the snake-like voice hissed. "All this talk is making me hungry!"

Eirik then noticed the soft clanging of chains and the low moaning of voices of those who were dying. Looking around, he saw a horrifying sight chained upon the walls: men and women of all the races of Tamriel in white robes, hanging by their feet from the walls and roof of the cave. Those who were, mercifully, already dead had their necks cut open and their faces covered in blood.

"Do you smell that, new-blood?" the hissing voice asked, sniffing in the air.

"Yes..." the woman's voice replied. "So much..._fresh_ blood!"

Eirik knew that he had been discovered. He was covered in the blood of slain Imperials and Stormcloaks and his own arm was bleeding from the arrow wound. But how could they detect him merely by his blood? Then, from behind one of the pillars of rock appeared a Nordic woman whose face was white as snow and her eyes yellow like a cat's. Immediately she leaped at Eirik and pushed him onto the ground. Just before his face, he saw her mouth filled with razor sharp teeth like a wolf's open wide and bite at his face. Thankfully, his hand was on her neck and kept her face from tearing off his own. Nevertheless, he could feel her strength, which was at least ten times that of a Nord, man or woman: it felt more like wrestling a saber-cat than someone the size of Lydia.

Without his seax, he punched the vampire in the face, then rolled aside, using his weight and that of his armor to roll himself on top of the vampire. He reached for his sword, but already the vampire woman had reached for his neck and had her hands gripped tightly around it. Eirik felt her hand like jaws of iron slowly closing around his neck and his head began to swim.

"Very good," the other voice hissed. "Well, you certainly aren't one of those foolish Vigilants, but you'll do nicely.

"_Yol!_" Eirik shouted, looking at the vampire woman whose hand was on his throat and thinking fast.

The younger vampire burst into flames and began writhing about on the ground. Eirik, however, seized the opportunity to get back on his feet and draw his great-sword. But he was not looking at his fallen foe, but at the older vampire. His face was pale, just the same, but his eyes seemed to be protruding from out of his skull, a brighter shade of yellow than his servant.

"You think you can kill me with that toy?" the vampire hissed, then laughed Eirik to scorn.

But Eirik didn't wait to respond. Swinging wide, he hacked off the hand that the vampire had raised to defend his neck. The hand fell to the ground and the vampire hissed loudly. Eirik, meanwhile, brought the sword back up, but the vampire caught it in his remaining hand. Eirik could see blood in the vampire's hand and its teeth were barred at Eirik, but there seemed to be no other sign that he was winning.

"Fight me all you want," laughed the vampire. "I can break your neck as easily as a child's."

"Then why don't you do it, then?" Eirik asked. "Just kill me and stop talking about it!"

The vampire laughed. "This is the most fun I've had in three hundred years!" The vampire pushed Eirik's sword aside, and he felt as though he had been struck by a dragon. Then with swiftness like the wind, the vampire lunged at him, hand swinging towards Eirik's head. But he had remembered the Imperial soldiers who were swatted like flies by the vampire during the attack in Hjaalmarch, and was no fool. He swung aside and hacked at the vampire's side. The vampire hissed, but the sword did not cut through his whole body. Eirik swung it around and brought it towards the vampire's neck. Maybe if he knew why the vampire was protecting his neck so...

A hand of iron-strong grip seized his ankle and pulled him off his feet. Looking up, he saw the vampire woman crawling after him on her hands and knees, one of which had been the one which took him down. With a groan of frustration, he drove his sword into the skull of the vampire, and it gave out a quiver and fell to the ground at Eirik's feet.

"Sick 'em!" the vampire hissed.

Suddenly a large black dog leaped out at Eirik, tackling him to the ground and lunging at his face with its blood-stained jaws. Eirik seized the dog by its ears, barely keeping its iron-like jaws from ripping his face apart. He punched the dog in the snout, at which it fell away from him for a while but then was swiftly on its way back towards him. He thrust his sword down and ran it through the top of the neck: the beast gave a struggle or two, then collapsed. As Eirik was drawing the sword out, the last vampire lunged at him, seizing him by the throat and holding him up against a gate of iron bars.

"You've had your fun, human," the vampire hissed. "Now it's time for you to die!" It opened its mouth, filled with jagged teeth like knife blades and lunged for Eirik's exposed face.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted into the vampire's open mouth.

The vampire's head and face exploded in a spray of hot red blood: it was too close and Eirik's Thu'um was too powerful to contain, and it destroyed the vampire. It's headless body wiggled about helplessly for a few impotent seconds before it fell onto the body of the black dog. With a groan, he walked off, then pondered if he would rather leave the cave instead. Suddenly he remembered the words of Isran when he and Mjoll were at Castle Dawnguard: there was a cave in Hjaalmarch that he was to investigate, Dimhollow Crypt.

Mjoll! His thoughts returned to her. What had become of her? The last he saw of her was during the battle. She seemed to be holding her own, yet he remembered what she had said about her so-called gift. She was a peerless warrior, there was no doubt about that, but battle was hell and he himself had come through with an arrow in his arm (which must have sent the vampires on his trail with the scent of blood), but then when the dragon attacked, his only thought was on destroying it. Now, thrown away far and beyond in this place far away from the battlefield, he knew not what had become of her, or if she was still living. He considered leaving the cave and going out in search for her, but he knew that would be futile. He knew not where to begin searching, or how far Dimhollow Crypt was from the battlefield.

There was nothing else to do at the moment, so he chose to tackle that which was the immediate threat: these vampires. With sword drawn, he made his way farther into the cave. He walked on for what seemed like hours and there was no immediate response. But with each step forward into the darkness, echoing like the foot-falls of a dragon, Eirik was distinctly aware of a keen watchfulness somewhere in the darkness all around him. Sometimes he would be able to hear something like shuffling, but the light was dim and he could see nothing. This did nothing to alleviate the growing suspicion that he was being followed or, at the very least, watched.

Suddenly something jumped out at him and he was covered in long, clammy, hairy legs. Cold wet lips were reaching for his back, but he couldn't reach it with the sword. He pushed himself against the nearest wall and a hideous squeal was heard and the thing clinging to his back fell to the ground. There was shuffling and Eirik stomped down on something that cracked and shrieked. He was at last aware of this new foe: frost-bite spiders, the size of small dogs. He had faced them in a cave which led out of Helgen, and, like Ralof, he hated the sight of the bastards. With disgust, he stomped the spider again, then brought his sword down on something squishy and at last there was a final shriek and the shuffling was heard no more.

So it was that Eirik moved on again into the darkness. Slowly he became aware that the tunnels through which he was walking were cold and dank and he could smell rotting flesh wafting up on the thick air. He kept his sword in hand, fearful of an attack by draugr. Unlike frost-bite spiders, these were man-high and bore blades which could still bite even after centuries underground. In the dark these would be even more dangerous, since he would have no idea where they were coming from until it was too late.

After a long while of walking downhill and fearful of attacks, there was light in the tunnel. It was the dim and flickering light of torches, but it was welcomed nonetheless by the light-starved Eirik. The tunnel he saw illuminated four stone figures lining the hallway. They were ugly and grotesque, with thick bodies, long arms and ugly faces like the dremora, the lesser daedra, and they had wings folded upon their backs. They were as still as stones and yet, as Eirik walked among them, he could feel eight eyes watching him with curiosity and malicious intent.

At the end of the tunnel was a door, which Eirik pushed just as he heard a loud shuffling and a bubbling noise in the darkness behind him. Once the door was securely shut behind him, he could hear voices arguing in the next room, echoed greatly by the high ceiling. Eirik looked about and noticed a cold, pale light lingered in this room. It was not a cave, but a chapel-like room carved out of stone with a walkway suspended over a deep underground lake. As he slowly made his way along the parapet, lined with more grotesque statues, he could hear the arguing voices more clearly.

"My oath to Stendarr holds firm, monster," a voice spoke with brazen defiance.

"Is that so?" another voice, Nordic in tone but thin and raspy like the one Eirik had met before, asked. "Well, then, Vigilant, tel me: where was your precious Stendarr when we slaughtered your cult?"

"Vengeance will come to your kind soon," the defiant voice returned.

"Didn't you see what we did to your comrades, Adalvald?" the raspy voice retorted.

"Yes, I saw," Adalvald replied. "And Stendarr will repay you for your blasphemy!"

"Your god is dead!" the vampire voice growled. "Now you will do as I said or you will join him."

"Do you think that frightens me?" the Vigilant laughed. "All men die, but I won't end my life by betraying Stendarr. Your weapon will never be yours: the Night Eternity shall never be..."

There was a loud, sickening crunch and a gasp and then there was the noise of feasting like dogs tearing apart a corpse. Eirik could only guess, for he had left the parapet via a stairway at the far right side and was now hiding in the shadows, waiting for his moment, that Vigilant Adalvald had been torn apart. Quietly, Eirik gripped his great-sword, looking for the right moment to strike. There were about three vampires down on the walkway that led to the round platform standing in the center of the lake.

Suddenly he heard sniffing. "We have company, Master Lokil!" another voice spoke up.

"Bring them to me!" the raspy voice, belonging to the one identified as Master Lokil, replied.

_So much for hiding_, Eirik thought as he drew out his sword and prepared for the vampires to attack. He chose to hold his ground and wait for them to come to him. They moved too fast to make any kind of attacks worthwhile or effective. But these which moved towards him, however, bore blades like Nordic sell-swords and moved like anyone else. In fact, the only thing that was different were their eyes, which glowed a bright and sickly yellow in the gloom.

Eirik brought his sword down upon one of them, hacking off its leg at the knee and sending it sprawling on the floor. The next one, a woman, drew a sword in one hand and held out her hand in the other. That could only mean one thing: magic! Eirik moved as a gout of fire burst where a moment ago he had been standing. The vampire's thrall turned towards him and Eirik moved again. He had fought a few mages before, and knew that they could not hold their concentration indefinitely.

"Stop playing with him!" the voice of Lokil reprimanded.

Eirik quickly looked at the other vampire and saw him looking over the two combatants from afar. It seemed unusual, that he would hold out instead of taking him from the rear, but a sudden heat reminded Eirik that his enemy was before him. He ran again, but the flames followed him. With a loud cry, he charged at the thrall, knocking her down. Once down, he thrust his sword into the thrall's chest, from whence it spat blood, then finally came to a halt. But before Eirik could move or even cover himself, Lokil had seized him by his neck and was lifting him up off the ground.

"Well done, human," the vampire hissed. "Well done indeed. You'll do well."

"Do for what?" Eirik asked. "Why don't you just kill me?"

Lokil laughed. "'Kill me?' This one has a death-wish? Why, don't you know what you are? Slaves! Lord Bal demands that the strong deserve to survive, the weak are only there to serve." Eirik then felt a hand grip his left arm with a strength stronger than iron. His arrow wound was bleeding anew and he watched helplessly as the vampire sniffed his wound and licked the blood from it.

"You'll do well," he sneered. "Now come with me." Goading him by the grip he had on Eirik's neck, the same way a collar would have on a dog or a cow, Lokil led Eirik across the walkway to the round platform. He could see that there were braziers standing about the center of the platform, where stood a pedestal. There was no light from the braziers for they were all dead.

"Place your hand on the pedestal, slave," Lokil demanded.

"Fuck you," Eirik replied.

"Wrong answer," Lokil hissed, then shoved Eirik's face against the stone end of the pedestal.

"I am..." Eirik coughed, blood pouring out of his nostrils. "...no man's slave!"

"Is that so?" Lokil commented. He then placed his iron-strong hands around Eirik's neck again, pushing him face-first into the cold stone ground. "Why do you grovel before your master, then? Huh?!" Eirik replied by spitting blood onto the ground that had gathered in his mouth.

"Scum!" Lokil sneered. "Your kind just don't know when you've been mastered, have you?"

"You think you've mastered me?" Eirik strained. "Come here and face me like a man, you coward!"

Suddenly Eirik felt the vampire appear close to his neck, whispering in his ear and breathing its foul breath upon him. "I think not. Now place your hand on the pedestal, or I will make this very painful for you."

Eirik said nothing.

"You know how strong we vampires are?" Lokil asked. "I could stove your head in as easily as slapping an errant brat." Eirik felt cold fingers playfully brush against his chin.

"If you're so strong," Eirik retorted. "Why don't you make me do it?"

Lokil clicked his tongue. "You have spirit, I'll give you that, more than that Vigilant, b*tching and whining to his dead gods: but you obviously know nothing about the daedra. Lord Bal is the prince of rape, domination, enslavement...corruption. You see, for him it isn't enough that we merely force someone to submit to his will. We break their will of our own power, and watch as they hopelessly submit, crushed and defeated."

"You're wasting your time," Eirik retorted. "I've slain dragons; you're nothing!"

"Have it your own way," Lokil responded, then suddenly the back of Eirik's head was struck by something hard and he saw stars for a good thirty seconds. In that moment, the vampire seized Eirik's right hand and placed it upon the pedestal. Suddenly there was a piercing pain as an iron spike ran straight through his hand. A purplish light filled the platform and Eirik could see, dancing upon the pillars that surrounded the edge of the walkway, the shadow of something directly behind him.

"Alright," he groaned. "You've had your way, now will you kill me?"

"Oh no, not yet," Lokil sneered. "You have fire in you, my son. I'll enjoy breaking your spirit."

"Then why don't you start by looking me in the eyes?" Eirik retorted, holding in the searing pain in his right hand. "How would you know if my spirit broke unless you saw the fire die out of my eyes as you did it?"

There was a slight chuckle, then a hideous face appeared before Eirik. It was Nordic, that much was certain, but his head was mostly shaven, save for a mohawk of straw-like hair, a beard and a mustache that twirled at the ends.

"This will be long," Lokil laughed. "And _very_ painful."

"_Fus Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted in one quick inhalation.

Lokil's head exploded just mere inches away from his own, shattered by its close proximity to Eirik's Thu'um: its body flew back and broke as it was pushed haphazardly against the rail of the platform. Eirik was now covered in blood as he turned to his right hand and pulled it off the pedestal as fast as he could. He cradled it in his left hand, as it twitched and quivered, now practically painted red with his own blood. But there was something else before his eyes, something in the center of the room. The pedestal had vanished and now there was a tall stone monolith standing in the center before Eirik. He walked up to it and with his left hand, feebly touched the cold stone.

For one second, there was a sound of stone grinding against stone, then suddenly the monolith parted as a panel of stone began sliding down. Behind the panel was a niche of stone, out of which a figure clad in black slumped to the ground as the panel opened up. Eirik's eyes widened with surprise as he saw the meter-long thing which was bound by a leather strap to the figure's back: it was an Elder Scroll, exactly as he had seen in Alftand. After the stone panel hit the ground with a resounding clang, the figure stood up. In the dim light, Eirik could see that it was a woman, clothed in both crimson and sable, with a black cloak and a knife at her belt. Her eyes blinked open and Eirik saw the gleam of red and yellow, as he had seen in the eyes of Lokil and the others. Fear overtook him, for it seemed as though he had escaped one death only to face another death, now weaker and barely able to defend himself.

* * *

**(AN: You have _no_ idea how much I hate writing out dungeons! One reason is because I made vampires so strong, I would quickly have worn out my use of vampire-killing techniques and made the rest seem rather weak. Don't worry, in the escape [in the next chapter] all...Oblivion...will break loose.)**

**(About the Vigilants being strung up from the ceiling by their feet and such. Yeah, I don't know, was that too gruesome? But then again, I do depict blood and severed heads and this is M-rated: the gist of it was to make a way for the vampires to drain captured Vigilants of their blood in a way that would also be blasphemous to Stendarr [they're held upside down with their throats/chests open, in similar fashion to the horn in the emblem of Stendarr]. It might not mean much to you all, but that was my way of creating a lore-friendly...ish version of inverted crucifixion or some kind of blasphemous torture that vampires would do to Vigilants just to add insult to injury.)**

**(I also shortened the puzzle, my reasoning being a] Lokil and his vampires had probably been reading about this tomb or heard of it from Harkon and so knew how to open it, they just needed human blood and b] with his left arm weakened by the arrow wound and his right hand pretty much useless for now, Eirik would get very far with pushing, especially since he needs his strength for the next chapter.)**


	56. Escape from Dimhollow Crypt

**(AN: Meh, I've lost a dedicated reader/reviewer. Hopefully one of you will step up and continue reviewing this story. I do love your reviews.)**

**(Well, now we've reached the inevitable escape chapter, where we get to see just how important a character like...well, you know, can be in something like _Dawnguard_.)**

* * *

**Escape from Dimhollow Crypt**

"Ugh, by all the daedric princes of Oblivion!" the woman exclaimed. By her voice, Eirik guessed that she could be very young, though no younger than nineteen or twenty. "I..." Then he noticed that she saw him. "Wait, who are you? Who sent you?"

"You were expecting someone?" Eirik asked.

"Yeah, someone...like me," the woman said as she saw Eirik covered in blood and cradling his bleeding, right hand. She then looked up and noticed that Eirik was looking at her warily. "What?"

"You're vampire, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied, as though it were as obvious as her nose. "So what? Do you think I'm gonna attack you?"

"It's a fair assumption," Eirik replied.

"Look," she said, sighing. "You woke me up, I'm willing to not tear your head off for the moment. I just need to get out of this place."

"Where will you go?" Eirik asked.

"My family's castle," she said. "It's on an island north-west of Haafingar. If they're still there, that's where they'll be."

"I suppose we should get going, then," Eirik stated.

"Just a second," the woman said. There was a sudden blur and then she stood before him again, holding shreds of Lokil's clothes.

"What's this for?" Eirik asked.

"To bind your hands, idiot," the young woman replied. "By the White, don't you have any sense at all?"

"What do you mean?" he retorted as the young woman took his left arm in her cold, clammy hands.

"Vampires drink the blood of the living," she began as she wrapped some of the strips of cloth around his arm. "But the longer they go without blood, the wilder and the hungrier they get. Obviously I'm in control right now, but I have no idea when I'll be able to hunt again and I don't want to be tempted by the smell of blood." She then took his right hand in both of her hands.

"Agh!" Eirik groaned.

"You should probably take this to a healer," she said. "Though if any bones are broken, you're probably not going to be able to use this hand for quite some time. For now, though, let's bind it up." She wrapped the rest of the cloth around Eirik's right hand, until it looked as though it were a draugr's hand, bound in centuries' old linen.

"Thank you," Eirik replied.

"You can thank me later," she stated. "By the way, my name is Serana Volkihar."

"Eirik," he said. "The Dragonborn."

"Dragonborn?" she asked. "Hmm, I've heard rumors about priests in Morrowind claiming to be 'Dragonborn.'"

"Trust me," Eirik replied. "I'm not a priest."

"Not really sure what that means," Serana replied. "But you obviously look like a warrior." She looked over to Lokil's body. "You slew a full-grown vampire."

"It wasn't easy," Eirik replied.

"Tell me about it!" she exclaimed. "Now, where is your sword?"

"Over there," Eirik gestured towards the base of the parapet, where he had dropped it after slaying the two vampires.

"I take it your sword hand is your right one?" Serana asked.

"Aye," Eirik nodded.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to stand behind me and let me do all the fighting for you," Serana said, walking off towards the stairway. "Or else learn to fight left-handed."

Eirik ran after her, or stumbled as he was steadily beginning to feel light-headed. They had not reached the first of the steps back onto the parapet that led to the hallway back out of the crypt when suddenly there was a sound like shattering stone. Something large and winged appeared directly in front of them. Eirik looked back and saw his sword, forsaken just about twenty feet away.

Suddenly there was a loud yell and Serana had drawn the knife from her belt. The stone thing attacked her with its clawed hands, but she moved fast like the other vampires. Swiftly, she brought her hand down upon the stone thing's face, shattering the stone head in two like a war-hammer of the ancient Atmorans of old. The stone thing shattered to pieces before Serana's feet and Eirik was left stunned at this wanton display of power.

"Gargoyles," Serana stated. "Always found among the most affluent of vampire clans. Obviously, the Volkihar clan had their fair share of them. They turn to stone and can hide in plain sight in stone cities." She looked back at Eirik, then walked back down the steps and picked up his sword.

"It's a fine blade," she said, examining the blade. She then walked over to Eirik and slid it into the sheath he carried for it on his back. "Until you can swing this sword again, perhaps we should find you a shield to carry on your left arm."

Eirik groaned at this. He had used a shield at least thrice before, but preferred the two-handed great-sword as it seemed both purely Nordic, the art of swordsmanship, and it moved very similarly to the woodsman's ax with which he was accustomed. But now he would have to take up a shield to protect himself in battle, and there was little hope of that going anywhere as he had long been without practice and what skill he might have had must have certainly atrophied by now.

But he had little time to think. Just moments later, there was the sound of crumbling rock and Eirik feared that the cave would come crashing down upon them. But it was much worse instead: the gargoyles in the hallway leading to this room had awakened. Serana lunged through the door and began taking them out with mesmerizing precision. She moved so fast that she could successfully get the jump on most of them, tearing off their stone-heads with one or even two blows, but some were fast enough to hold up their arms or cover their faces with their large wings. These she shattered as well, as though she had the strength of ten men or two giants.

When at last the dust settled, all of the gargoyles laid in gravely pieces all around Serana's feet on the floor of the hallway. Only one had been fast enough to escape her blows and stood now between her and the passage-way that led out of the cave. She readied to leap at it when suddenly long, ugly reddish-brown, finger-less arms reached out of the darkness and took the gargoyle with them into the dark.

"What was that?" Eirik asked.

"It looked like a giant frost-bite spider," Serana replied.

"Giant?" Eirik asked. "You mean bigger than they already are?"

"Yeah, I would say that," she replied.

"How big could it be?" Eirik asked, trying to hope for the best. After all, his sword-hand was not useable and he had no shield with which to defend himself.

"Based on those arms?" she asked. "I'd say about the size of a mammoth."

Suddenly it lunged at them from out of the dark, barely able to squeeze its body and many legs into the corridor. Bristling with eight beady, black eyes, it slavered and bubbled at them, savoring the kill to come.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

The giant spider recoiled as though struck, but it was not thrown back. Serana leaped up and seized one of the spider's legs with both hands. When her boots touched the ground again, she was holding the spider's leg in her hands like a spear. With a stout tug, she pulled the leg off the beast and threw it over Eirik's head. He was barely able to move out of the way from being crushed by the giant leg as it fell behind him. She then drew out her knife with her right hand while her left was held out towards the spider in a gesture of rejection. From out of her opened palm came a reddish haze that enveloped the spider. Eirik saw that the spider was moving slower than before, enshrouded as it was in the haze. Suddenly she leaped at the beast again and it fell to the ground, hacked in two.

"Whoa," Eirik exclaimed. "That was amazing."

"It was nothing," Serana replied. "An old blood-spell and a quick stab at the creature's heart, that's all."

"But the way you were moving," Eirik stated. "I could never move that fast, even when..."

"One of the perks of being a vampire," Serana said with a smile. "Speed, strength and endurance greater than a giant."

"Tell me more about them," Eirik replied as they made their way down the darkened hall.

"Maybe we shouldn't be so loud," she said. "We might not be alone here."

"I encountered few people," he replied.

"They might have been hiding," she added.

"Then you go first!" Eirik retorted.

"I was just about to say that!" she laughed. They went on therefore, with Serana leading Eirik out of the tomb. At length, as they were passing through the cave tunnels that looked like parts of an ancient Nordic ruin, Serana spoke again. "So, what do you want to know about vampires?"

"Everything," he replied.

"Well, I just barely met you," she said. "So 'everything' is off the table."

"Okay," Eirik nodded. "How did you be..." But before the words came out of his mouth, an icy-cold hand closed over his mouth.

"You will never ask that again," Serana said, a steely look in her red-yellow eyes. She removed her hand from his mouth then continued on.

"Why?" Eirik asked. "Can I ask why I'm not allowed to ask that question?"

"Because I can rip your head off with one slap," she replied.

They went on in awkward silence for a long while, as the cavern passed swiftly by them and they soon became aware of the cool air flowing down upon them from the tunnel beyond. Eirik knew that they were getting closer, though he now had to fight to keep himself on his feet. For a moment it looked as though he would fall to the hard, stone floor, but then cold, iron-like hands seized his shoulders in a powerful grip and kept him on his feet.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Serana replied. "I almost forgot that you're human." She shook her head. "Such fragile creatures. Always in need of a rest, yet never satisfied and so easily breakable. And easy to find: I could smell you almost before my eyes opened."

"It's certainly difficult finding you vampires," Eirik replied.

"That's one of the oldest stories about vampires," Serana began. "The daedric prince Clavicus Vile made a deal with a vampire whose name...even my mother and father could not recall." She chuckled. "Might have even been Lamae herself. Anyway, the story goes that this vampire made a deal with Lord Vile and the daedric prince blessed vampires with our incredible regenerative powers."

"Regenerative powers?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she began. "We hate the sunlight. It was said that, before the deal was made, vampires would burst into flames if they were caught by the sun. The Tyranny of the Sun, it was called by those who survived. Now, thanks to Lord Vile, we can walk in sunlight, though we are made weaker and our skin burns as though with fire, but we are not consumed. But that's only a small part of the deal: there are...some vampires, very powerful vampires, who can become like those gargoyles. Powerful beyond belief, like gods walking on the earth once again.

"Of course, such power comes with a major draw-back: you look like a fucking gargoyle. This means that even at night, it would be easy to see you coming. So the deal made it that if feeding on the blood of the living reversed this affect, turning us into what you see here." She waved her hand over her face. "Remember what I said about us getting wilder and hungrier the longer we went without blood?"

"Aye," Eirik nodded.

"Well, that's where that came from," she continued, then turned her head towards the tunnel and sniffed. "Lucky for you, we'll be outside soon."

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"The air," she said. "It's not as stale and stuffy as it was farther down in the cave. And I can smell it, which means we must be getting close." She paused, sniffing again. "We're not alone."

Suddenly there was heard the shuffling of feet and hissing of breath just beyond in the gathering darkness. Serana drew out her knife, then leaped out into the dark. There was a loud crunch, then a groan and suddenly a body came flying back and pinned him against the cave wall. It was Serana, being thrown back with large claw-marks across her face.

"_Gaan!_" Eirik exclaimed, as Serana's weight fell upon his right hand.

It was an act of blind luck, but it might have saved both of their lives. When Serana leaped into the darkness, she encountered a trio of vampires. One of them she had managed to get the jump on, but the other struck her down and sent her flying back across the tunnel. The vampire then leaped after her, intent on finishing her off with his quickness and strength, and then, quite by accident, Eirik discovered a Thu'um he had unknowingly picked up here in the darkness as well as on the cold heights of Arcwind Point what felt like many months ago.

The vampire fell forward, as if staggered, and for a while seemed to move slowly. But Serana had not been thus affected, and brought her hand down upon the back of the vampire's head, caving it in with an explosion like a hammer smashing a melon. She rose up slowly, like a creature of prey on the hunt, her eyes darting swiftly about through the darkness.

"I know you're there," she said to the shadows. "I can smell your presence." She sniffed. "Why have you come?"

"Serana!" Eirik exclaimed.

She turned about and saw that Eirik's neck was being held by a vampire who had come up from behind. But Serana was swift and she leaped at the vampire, slamming her fist into its face before it could break Eirik's neck. Her punch went through the creature's face and shattered rock on the cave wall behind it, leaving a spew of blood all over Eirik's face.

"Thank you again," he replied.

"Don't mention it," she said.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," he breathed. "Just get me out of here and I'll never wander into another vampire crypt for as long as I live."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she retorted.

She offered Eirik a hand up, which he took, though her hand felt like a corpse's hand. Once he was on his feet, still unsteady from the loss of blood, the two of them made their way towards the place where the bodies of the dead Vigilants had been strung up by their feet. Just outside, he could hear the howling of the wind. Then he heard something else, quiet and still, sniffling just beneath the wind's mighty howl. Serana stopped and sniffed the air, and then the sound of a sword being drawn was heard and footsteps approached.

"Eirik!" a familiar voice cried out.

From the mouth of the cave stepped Mjoll, a torch in hand and worry in her face. She threw the torch to the ground, seemingly ignoring Serana as she threw her arms around Eirik's neck. He too could barely suppress the tears that were now making their way down his face. From beyond all hope, he had found her and she had found him. Battle and dragons, darkness and vampires could not keep them apart.

* * *

**(AN: As with the previous chapters, I've based the story somewhat on my own adventures while playing _Skyrim_. As such, while I began the _Dawnguard_ expansion, I started taking up one-handed with shield as well, because I had maxed out two-handed. For that explanation, we see the reason is that Eirik lost the use of his right hand because of that spike. Yes, there is space in between the hand bones [carpals or meta-carpals, I think, I'm not certain] to allow for that to happen but still have his hand be useable. However 1] Eirik may be a bad-ass, but he's not God, 2] that would still cause quite a bit of pain and make his hand unusable for a while as well and lastly 3] it is more likely the spike broke the bones in his right-hand, rendering it useless.)**

**(Since I have your attention, I have a question to ask...how old do you think Serana is? From her dialogue in the game, it is clear that she is from the early First Era, though there is one passionate fan on the _Elder Scrolls wiki_ who is convinced that the game makers just messed up and she isn't really that old. Personally, I'd rather stick with what the game has said, as I've deviated so much in this story that I feel I need to adhere more to the original material. Lol, no I haven't deviated _too_ too much. In the beginning, it was because I was just interested in telling a fun adventure story and knew very little of the lore. By now, I'm constantly watching walkthroughs on _YouTube_ and consulting the Elder Scrolls wiki to make sure what I'm writing checks out with the facts, which of course explains why it takes a long time for these chapters to come out.)**


	57. Bloodline

**(AN: I'm grateful for all the reviews. _Le Fou_, I didn't think I was making her that haughty, but then I re-read my work and saw where that could have come from. My only excuse would be that she was raised by vampires until she became one herself and then was locked away. She obviously wasn't raised with a high opinion for humans, and while she might not be actively hunting them, it will take some time for her to realize they're not merely "cattle". As for the cure for vampirism, Eirik didn't know that, in the early stages, one needs just a strong curative to purge the effects. He has little experience hunting vampires/curing Sanguinare Vampiris, and so acted quickly because he didn't know. Needless to say, the next time it may not be so easy. Lol, I'm not going to give _too_ much away, you'll just have to read ahead.)**

**(And as for Unrelenting Force, yeah, I liked that too. Obviously using that Shout in the bedroom wouldn't be a good idea, since it would probably turn your partner into the artwork from a _Cannibal Corpse_ album.)**

* * *

**Bloodline**

At last, Mjoll and Eirik separated and he could see her once again, though in the glaring light of the torch fallen on the ground. She was definitely dirty, stained both with blood and with dirt more than he had ever seen upon her. Her war-paint was smeared, but she looked otherwise happy and content. Even more so there was no sign of injury upon her, which was more than he could say for himself.

"Mjoll," he laughed. "By the Nine!"

"Please, don't say anything," Mjoll cried. "Oh, I had almost given up hope of ever finding you again. After the battle, when you faced the dragon, I followed you in the direction where I saw the dragon fleeing when it left the battle. I searched everywhere for a sign of you, but there was nothing. It wasn't until much later that I finally found the bones, but you weren't there. I was afraid but..." She laughed. "Oh, thank the Nine!"

Suddenly there was a sound of throat-clearing and they both turned towards Serana. Mjoll then cast a look of disapproval at Eirik, who cleared his throat then introduced Serana to Mjoll.

"And where did you find her?" Mjoll asked.

"In here," Eirik said. "I'm taking her back to her family."

"Well, then, I'm going with you," Mjoll replied. "I just found you, I'm not going to lose you again."

"Uh, excuse me," Serana spoke up. "She can't come with us."

"What?" Eirik asked.

"Why not?" Mjoll added.

"Well, I won't just let _anyone_ see the home of my family," Serana stated. "And most certainly not some young interloper."

"Young?" Mjoll retorted. "I'll have you know that I was hunting cliff-racers since before you were born!"

Serana laughed, opening her heavy-lidded eyes and baring a few razor-sharp incisors that showed Mjoll that this was no ordinary girl. Mjoll backed up, reaching for Grimsever, which she had placed aside when she saw Eirik just moments ago.

"Eirik, get back!" Mjoll stated. "She's a..."

"Vampire, I know," he replied.

"What?" she retorted. "But you remember what happened to that family from High Rock! Their youngest daughter..."

"That wasn't me," Serana stated venomously.

"Listen," Eirik said. "I was just..." He swayed on his feet for a moment. "I was lost in the cave...she helped me get out, she saved me from the others in the cave, I surely would have..." He lurched forward and Mjoll caught him.

"By the White, what happened to you?" Mjoll asked.

"It wasn't me, in case you were wondering," Serana replied with a condescending voice.

"Eirik, your hand!" Mjoll exclaimed, holding his hand. "We can't leave this place, not with you in this condition."

"I'll keep watch," Serana said. "After all, I don't need to sleep."

"Mjoll, please..." Eirik mumbled. "Please...she means no harm..."

"We'll just see about that, won't me?" she replied.

* * *

Sleep was not easy for any of them. Serana merely paced about the couple, keeping a look-out for any who might attack them. Mjoll at last succumbed to sleep, but Eirik, fearful of succumbing to his wounds, was seemingly trying to keep himself from falling asleep, lest he never awake again. At last, with sleep pounding down upon his aching forehead, he turned to Serana.

"May I ask you something?" he asked.

"That depends," she replied.

"When you and my wife were arguing," he began.

"She's your wife?" Serana asked.

"Aye," he nodded.

"Well, to each their own," she replied, but said no more on the topic.

"Uh, as I was saying," Eirik continued. "She called you young and then you hissed at her."

"Your point being?"

"How long were you in that crypt?"

There was a long, heavy silence, during which the wind whistled and a wolf howled in the distance. At last, Serana shook her head and murmured. "I don't know, I can't really tell. I feel like it was a long time ago. Who is the High King of Skyrim?"

His friends and shield-brothers in the rebellion would have wanted him to reply that Ulfric is the true High King. Crixus would claim that Torygg was the High King, if he didn't begin on some tirade about how Skyrim wasn't really an independent kingdom and just a puppet government of the weak Medan Empire of Cyrodiil: for Eirik and the Stormcloaks, that was the greatest offense, but to him, that would have been a weapon he probably would have used against him. But the words that Eirik said, however, surprised even him. He could not ignore the face of the young Nord man, barely out of his teenaged years, who had fallen in battle against the rebellion.

"That's actually a matter of debate," he said.

"Wonderful," she replied with condescending amusement. "Good to know the world hasn't gotten boring while I was asleep. So, who wants the throne?"

"The Empire has Elisif has their chosen potentate," he said. "But there are some in Skyrim who won't stand for an Imperial puppet on the throne. We support Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

"Empire? What empire?" she asked.

"_The_...Empire," Eirik replied, feeling rather awkward. "From Cyrodiil?"

"There's an empire in Cyrodiil?" she asked in amazement. "By the White, I must have been asleep longer than I thought...or longer than they had planned. Now I _really_ need to get back home, to see what I've missed!" She cleared her throat. "Alright, now let me ask you something."

"Go ahead," Eirik sighed.

"Why were those vampires after you in particular?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they seemed determined to kill you," Serana began. "When I fought them, they weren't as keen on killing me as killing you, they just wanted me out of commission. So tell me, why do they want to kill you?"

Eirik became suddenly wary. If he told her the truth, she might turn on him and it might be that Mjoll had lost her powers and so could not help him should a powerful vampire attack him, wounded and weary, in the dead of the night.

"Well?" she asked, waiting for his answer.

He sighed, fearing the worst but no longer caring what happened. "I am part of a society known as the Dawnguard."

"Doesn't sound like a name of a vampire family," she replied. "Not when they called daylight 'the Tyranny of the Sun'. Well, it certainly seems that something big is happening, which is why we should head for Haafingar as soon as possible."

"Why don't you..." Eirik began.

"What, go alone?" Serana asked. "I think I owe it to you to have you come with me. After all, you did awaken me. I should at least tell my father to cause the vampire attacks to cease. You deserve at least that."

Eirik sighed, but said no more.

* * *

When morning rose at last upon the snow-clad peaks of the mountains, Eirik found himself wrapped in what looked like the pelt of a large bear. Nearby he saw Mjoll lying next to him, also wrapped under the bear-skin. Serana was standing by herself in a corner of the hill-side, a hood drawn over her head. As Eirik was waking, Mjoll rose and started at the sight of the bear-skin.

"What is this?" she asked. "Where did this pelt come from?"

"I got it for you both last night," Serana replied. "Looked like you could use it."

Eirik noticed that Mjoll gave Serana a scathing look and watched her carefully, clearly not trusting of the young-looking vampire. There was little food for their breakfast, as Mjoll had come here almost straightway from the battlefield. Eirik also was not heavily provisioned save for a small sack that included a sharpening stone, his purse and a few odds and ends long since forgotten: no food or warm clothes, or even elixirs known to keep a wayfarer on his feet on the road with a light stomach.

"Well, it's morning now," Serana said with a defeated tone. "We might as well head west, Eirik."

"I'm coming with you," Mjoll stated.

"I thought we talked about this already," Serana retorted.

"You talked," Mjoll replied. "And I will go with my husband."

"I told you," Serana said. "I'm not letting some interloper see the home of my family's clan!"

"I almost lost him yesterday," Mjoll said. "I won't let that happen again, not while I have strength to protect him."

"I don't need protection," Eirik retorted.

"Look at you!" Mjoll stated, turning to Eirik. "You can't even hold a sword!"

"Don't make me hurt you, child," Serana threatened. "I could stove your face in with one hand!"

"I've fought your kind before, in Morrowind," Mjoll replied. "And I lived to tell the tale."

"My family will attack you if you try to follow us," Serana stated. "And while I might be able to vouch for him..." She nodded to Eirik. "I can't do the same for you."

"Can't or won't?" Mjoll retorted.

"Please, stop! Both of you!" Eirik interjected, then turned he to the Lioness. "Listen, Mjoll, I have to do this. Once she's safely returned home, I'll meet you again in Whiterun, gods willing."

Mjoll said nothing for a moment. She looked down at the pelt for a moment, then up at Serana, who still bore a look of passive-aggressiveness on her face. Mjoll figured that she would not be very helpful if she chose to go against her request and follow after Eirik.

"Where will you two go?" she asked at last.

"My family's castle," Serana said. "It's on an island north-west of Haafingar."

"That's in Imperial territory," Mjoll stated. She turned over to Eirik. "What will happen if you're caught? You're in no condition to fight!"

"I am still the Dragonborn," he replied. "If all else fails, I can shout them down."

"And I can kill a good hundred all on my own easily," Serana added. "If this Empire tries to impede our path, there will be fewer soldiers left to fight in this war of succession."

Mjoll turned to Eirik, biting her lip in what looked like frustration. "I don't want you to go," she said in a low voice. "We were just married and then we had to fight in the battle and then you're being called away, into enemy territory...and I can't go with you?"

"I'll do my best to stay alive," he said. "You just make sure you do the same."

"You know me," Mjoll said with a smile. "I can always handle myself."

"Say, do you happen to know who won the battle?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she said. "The Legion was routed, the army has begun its march towards Morthal."

"Gods willing," Eirik sighed. "This war will soon be over." He embraced Mjoll, kissing her lips after what seemed like a year or more without having seen, touched or smelled her. Now they would be parting again. "Wait for me in Breezehome."

Eirik then turned to Serana, who had been waiting on the two of them to be finished. Once they were done, she set off down the hill while Eirik cast one last glance at Mjoll, then turned and followed after Serana down the path that would take them into the marshland of Hjaalmarch.

* * *

The day was not very bright, for the rainclouds which had swept down upon the Stormcloak camp in Whiterun hold were now making their way northward, blown by a strong wind out of Cyrodiil. For now they hung over Hjaalmarch and threatened to bring rain down upon the two travelers, who, after two hours of walking, were now within sight of Morthal.

"This must be that beautiful Skyrim weather I've heard so much about," Serana groaned after a long walk through the dark, threatening clouds.

"I thought you hated the sun," Eirik replied.

"I do," she said. "But these clouds are untrustworthy. Ever and anon they let the sun through."

"We'll stop for a short while in yonder town of Morthal," Eirik said. "I need a shield, and we need food."

"_You_ need food," Serana replied. "I've already eaten and I never drink...wine, or beer or whatever it is you people drink."

Her words reminded Eirik of what he had awoken to this morning. "Tell me," he asked. "What happened to that bear?"

"I was hungry and you and your woman needed warmth," Serana replied. "Isn't that enough?"

"You ate it?" Eirik asked.

"He who wastes not shall not be in want," Serana replied with a smile.

Eirik chuckled. "Thank you."

"Didn't want you dying on me, now did I?" she smiled.

Eirik paused as they were now within sight of the town of Morthal. All seemed at peace. In fact, were it not for Mjoll's statement of the outcome of the battle, he would never have believed that this town was on the brink of attack. He turned to Serana, who shrugged her shoulders, then adjusted her hood so that her eyes were hidden, then he turned back to the town and made his way there. He was making far too many visits to this small, run-down swamp-town for his liking.

While he was walking, he noticed that there were no Stormcloak soldiers about the town, no banners flying from the top of the Jarl's long-house. While he was standing there, pondering what this could mean, he saw an Argonian with reddish scales. From his frame, he looked like one who had been working most of his life.

"You there, sir!" Eirik spoke up.

"What do you want, softy?" the Argonian snarled.

"I just want to ask you something," Eirik returned.

"Out with it!" he ordered. "I'm a busy man, I haven't got time to talk to anyone!"

"I heard the Stormcloak army was coming this way..." Eirik began.

"And good riddance!" the Argonian replied. "A pity there's not enough soldiers to drive every one of you pretentious pigs into the sea where you belong!"

"Just answer the question, dammit!"

"Alright," growled the Argonian. "Two Imperial cohorts arrived here from Solitude, and another from Markarth. What with the snow in the mountain passes, the main road was the only way in or out of Morthal, and the Empire kept those well. Whatever was left of those scum have dispersed. Now get off, I've gotta start my shift in the mines!"

Eirik sighed, then set his sights north-westward, towards the high mountains of Haafingar. A short stop in the Moorside Inn and then they would be on their way again. The journey to Morthal was not completely without fruit, but he knew now that leaving Morthal and arriving in Haafingar would be difficult with so many Imperial soldiers about the hold.

* * *

At the Moorside Inn, Eirik received, apart from warm food, confirmation of what the Argonian miner had said: the Imperial cohorts had halted the advance of the Stormcloak armies. The battle in which he and Mjoll had partaken, though she had left prematurely and claimed it a victory, was futile. But those people who died, whether by the sword or the dragon's breath, for them the battle had been real. And while the only deaths who meant nothing were those of the Stormcloaks - who would now have pints of ale raised in their honor in Stormcloak-friendly taverns or in secret in the holds owned by the Empire - Eirik had a sickening feeling in the depth of his stomach that told him that many more needless deaths like this would be happening in the near future. It all had to stop somewhere, but where would it end? With Ulfric dead and all of Skyrim being a puppet to a weak empire? That seemed the most likely in these conditions.

After less than an hour at the inn, Eirik and Serana went on their way from Morthal, without a shield. Eirik had only been this way once before, and it was on horseback to the city of Solitude. He had intended to go thither and from there get the rest of the directions for the way from Serana. Instead, once they were well on their way out of Morthal, Serana, with hood over head, called for a halt.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're going the wrong way," she said. "We're going around the north-eastern end of yonder city." She paused for a moment.

"What?" Eirik asked.

"I've heard stories about this city," she said. "It was one of the oldest cities made by the first inhabitants of Skyrim: the Atmorans, whom my family called ancestors. From the castle, you could just barely see the tallest towers of Solitude over the mountains. Seeing it for the first time in years...it's exactly what I imagined!"

Eirik sighed, thinking back again to the first time he had seen Solitude, on his mission here for Delphine. He had narrowly escaped death and now would be, once again, traversing perilously through Imperial territory. Nevertheless, he was the Dragonborn and he had Serana at his side. For good or ill, he would hazard the straight-forward path, though it lay through a hedge of swords.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Are _you_?" she replied with a wiry smile. "The northern face of the Kilkreath Mountains is not for the weak. Harsh winds from the sea blow continuously upon the island of my..."

"I'm ready," Eirik replied. "Let's do this."

* * *

So they turned their course northward and made for the shore, to wind their way around the northern end of Solitude and so arrive on the northern shore of Haafingar, along the flanks of the Kilkreath mountain range. Eirik made sure his blue scarf, the emblem of the Stormcloak rebels, was wrapped tightly around his neck but kept the end, with the emblem of the Bear of Windhelm, hidden among his person. Imperial patrols would undoubtedly be found in great numbers here, and he hoped not to be caught brazenly showing the emblem of their enemies while on his way to a secret rendezvous.

They walked on for hours, with the sun now climbing high across the sky on its way towards the Reach. They passed the northern keel of the mountain upon which the Blue Palace of Solitude was built, and were now fully exposed to the howling winds out of the far north. Eirik held his cloak up over his face to keep out the wind, while Serana walked before him seemingly unscathed, her raven black hair billowing like a banner in the night wind.

Suddenly, Serana came to a halt. The wind was loud and heavy in Eirik's ears, therefore he walked closer to Serana, wanting to hear why she had called for a halt. When he came up close to her, he saw that she was sniffing. Then there was a blur of movement and Eirik saw Serana holding an arrow whose tip was just a hair's breadth from his face.

"You won't get another chance, milk-drinker!" a voice shouted.

Eirik turned about and saw a Cyrodilian with a bow bent and a shield on his back. He guessed that this was the one who had loosed the arrow on him. He turned towards the newcomer and reached for his sword, but then remembered painfully that his right hand was out of commission. The next arrow was loosed, but in another blur of movement that could have been no greater than a mirage, Serana had snatched the arrow out of flight. Then with a leap like a saber-cat, she had sprung upon the hapless adventurer and had torn off his right hand. He fell to the ground, screaming and crying in horror. Serana, meanwhile, glowered over him for a few moments, then reached down and seized him by the neck. In one swift tightening of her hands, the Cyrodilian's body went limp.

"Thank you," Eirik said. "Though by now, I owe you too much."

"Don't mention it," Serana replied, taking the shield off the back of the fallen one and walked over to Eirik. She then began strapping the shield onto his arm, which was entirely needful since he could not do so himself.

"Are we almost there?" Eirik asked at last.

"We should be there within at least two hours," Serana replied, turning towards the sea. "You can see the highest spires of the castle from here, just off-shore."

Eirik looked west-ward, across the sea, towards the place whereto he had been directed. After a while, he saw a tiny black spot far in the distance, though the sun was now westering behind the Kilkreath Mountains and he could see little in the gathering gloom.

"Thank you once again," Eirik added. "For all you've done. You didn't have to."

Serana sighed. "There's something you should know."

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Well," she began. "I know we still have a long ways to go, but I wanted you to know before we arrived and we left."

"Left?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she said. "I'm going to go my own way for a while, after we arrive at the castle. I wanted to thank you for getting me this far."

"Anyone would have done the same," Eirik replied.

"No, you're wrong," Serana shook her head. "When I was growing up in my family castle, I was taught to avoid humans at the very best. They would kill us on sight or do other horrible things to us. When I finally..._became_ what I am, they told me that while humans were still dangerous, now I could kill them and hunt them for their blood..."

In one moment, she leaned over the body of the slain Cyrodilian adventurer and squeezed the stumped wrist where she had torn off his hand. Blood gathered around the edge of her palm, which she brought up and held before the eyes of both of them.

"You people were nothing but cattle to us," Serana replied. "Useful for only one thing." She licked her hand, then made a gasp and shuddered in such a way that surprised Eirik. For a moment, the memory of the noises Lydia made during their clandestine union in Hjaalmarch came back to his mind. Only, this was over blood.

"Am I supposed to be put at ease by this?" Eirik asked.

"No," Serana replied. "I want you to know what you're getting yourself into. There _will_ be vampires in my family's castle, many of whom won't have the same restraint I've shown you through our journey." She sighed, then wiped the rest of the blood on the clothing of the dead man and did not partake of it. "You're a good man, the only human I've ever considered close to...a friend. If you want to turn back now..."

"No," Eirik shook his head. "I've come this far, I'll take you the rest of the way. It's not in me to give up."

"As you wish," Serana stated. "I should warn you, though, if you wish to stay alive in there, just don't say anything. Follow my lead and let me do all the talking."

"As _you_ wish," Eirik replied with a smirk.

Eirik continued on along the side of the sea, his eyes now set on the tiny black dot on the horizon. He wondered for a moment how they would arrive there, when suddenly he discovered that Serana was no longer with him. He looked this way and that for some sign of her, then suddenly there was a rush as of wind and he turned around and saw her standing there, face hidden beneath her hood.

"What happened?" he asked. "Why did you run away?"

"I had some unfinished business to take care of," she replied. "Now, come! We have a long way still to go."

They journeyed forth in silence, with the night slowly falling around them as they walked down the shore. At last, however, they came to a cove sheltered from the rest of Skyrim by the Kilkreath Mountains. Here, behind several large rocks that dotted the pebbly shore, Eirik and Serana found a small dinghy propped up between two large stones. There were no sturdy trees this close to the shore, which meant that it would have to be kept from drifting during high tide by some way, and those who had used it last took this measure upon them to keep it on land.

Serana removed the boat from its 'mooring' and placed it upon the shore. Inside there were two oars. She asked Eirik to get inside, then once he was seated in the boat, she gave it a shove and sent it off into the sea just as the tide was going out. She leaped in once her clothes became soaked up to the knees, then took the oars and started heaving against the crashing waves that sent the boat rocking to and fro.

"You should let me take the oars," Eirik offered.

"Really?" Serana snickered. "With only one arm? We'd be stuck half-way once your strength gave out."

"I'm stronger than I look, even now," Eirik replied.

"Just hold on, Eirik," Serana retorted. "It should be at least half an hour till we arrive on the island."

* * *

They were upon the waves for a long while. For Eirik, he merely sat in the rear and watched as Serana effortlessly pulled the oars that cleaved through the cold, black Nordic sea. Above, the sky was growing dark, for the night had now come upon the land of Skyrim. Before them, Eirik could see something rising up out of the sea like a crown of black iron, with many tall spires. Even in the darkness, he could see it rising high and visible even as the dusk was obscuring all else. Momentarily, however, he was drawn back to Serana, whose black and crimson bodice had a low neck-line.

At last, as the night was now black about them, he could see the edge of Masser just barely far behind them. But immediately before him, the lesser Secunda was rising up over what he had once seen as an iron crown. Now it rose massively high, far enough, Eirik guessed, to see the top of the Blue Palace in Solitude. The fortress itself was dark and foreboding, like a shadow burning shadow under which even the knowledge of the sun's inevitable return seemed like an idiot's vain fantasy, a poor joke told to alleviate the weak from the burden of the awful truth.

There was a sound from one of the towers as Serana brought forward the boat and tied it to the small pier that waited for them on the other side of the island. Eirik could not guess what words were being said, but he heard a great iron-chain grinding before them and then the whine of old hinges protesting against their orders. Serana strode forward across a long bridge of stone flanked by many winged statues. Eirik followed on after her, feeling once again that the statues had eyes that were looking at him with malicious intent.

They passed through the dimly-lit gatehouse and entered a stone antechamber where waited an Altmer.

"How dare you trespass here!" he seethed at Eirik.

"Wait!" Serana spoke up. "He's with me, Vingalmo."

"Serana?" the elf returned. "Is it really...you? I can hardly believe my eyes!" He then turned and ran towards the opening, where light and noise were seen and heard. "My lord, everyone! Serana has returned!"

The elf Vingalmo stepped aside as Eirik and Serana walked into the next room. It was a great-hall, like Mistveil Keep or the dining hall of the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm. All around the table were many noble-looking people, eating and drinking. It was with a chill that Eirik saw exactly what was lying upon the tables and swirling in the goblets. A large black dog appeared before him and barred its teeth.

"Heel, Garm!" a voice shouted. From the tables, Eirik saw a leg, a whole human leg, thrown to the floor. At this, the dog Garm leaped upon it and began devouring it hungrily.

Eirik sighed within himself. The tables all around him were filled with bodies in various levels of evisceration. The goblets were filled with blood, redder than any wine he had ever drank. They ate, however, as though this were any feast, not as though they were eating the flesh and blood of people, living people like himself. He looked around and saw that there were many at the tables and at least one other black dog patrolling the floor, looking for some forsaken scraps fallen from the master's table.

Suddenly, a tall man stood up from the head of the table. He was dressed in black and red, like Serana, and wore a cloak like hers as well. He had short hair and a neatly cropped beard and mustache. As Serana stood before him, he smiled and held out his hands as if in gesture of greeting.

"Ah, Serana!" he greeted. "My long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?"

"Thousands of years," Serana said. "I've been gone for thousands of years and _that's_ the first thing you ask me?" The tall vampire lord looked sternly at Serana, though stern was perhaps not the proper word. Fierce was more like it, but a subtle kind of fierce, one such as Eirik saw on the faces of Altmer who saw him with the amulet of Talos. But Serana merely sighed, brushing it off like a minor annoyance. "Yes, I have the scroll."

The vampire lord chuckled. "Of course I'm delighted to see you, Serana. Must I really say those words aloud?" He paused. "If only your mother were here, I would let our reunion be the last thing she sees before her head is placed upon a spike from the highest tower of the castle!" He turned to Eirik and the powerful Dragonborn warrior flinched under the look the vampire lord gave to him. It was somewhere between idle interest and lust, the same kind of lust a man long-starved looks upon the sweet-roll he steals.

"And I see you brought food with you," the vampire lord said. He then turned to Serana. "Into our family hall, no less!"

"No, father!" Serana interjected, standing between the vampire lord and Eirik. "He's my rescuer, he's the one who set me free."

"Indeed?" the vampire lord asked, then turned to Eirik. "You brought my daughter to me, swine. Now tell me, what is your name?"

"Eirik," he replied.

"Ah, yes," the vampire lord said. "Eirik of the Dawnguard!" There was a collective hiss, like a challenge or a threat issuing from all those gathered at the table.

"I am Harkon Volkihar," the vampire lord began. "Lord of the Volkihar clan and ruler of this castle. By now, I am sure my daughter has told you what we are."

"Vampires?"

"The oldest and most powerful vampires in Skyrim!" Harkon exclaimed, to which there were cheers and clamors of pride from those at the table, which came to a deafening halt with a wave of Harkon's hand. He moved towards Eirik with speed even swifter than that of his daughter and was now close to Eirik. "Lamae Beolfag was the one who sired me. And I have brought these, some of my own siring, others loyal servants, to this fortress, where we have lived for centuries, far from the cares of the world..." He hissed, his face becoming suddenly grotesque.

"Until my _wife_ betrayed me and stole away that which I value most!" He spoke the word 'wife' as though it were an offensive word to him. He then took a step back and smiled.

"As a reward for reuniting me with my daughter," he continued. "And...the Elder Scroll...I offer you the greatest gift I can offer: immortality."

"You mean I'd become a vampire?" Eirik asked.

At this, Harkon laughed. "Not merely a vampire, my friend, but a living god: a lion walking amongst sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, or bow at your feet, should you so desire. And most importantly of all, you will never have to fear death again."

Suddenly, the vampire lord transformed before his eyes into something hideous. Like a gargoyle it was, yet larger. It was clad in grayish skin like a corpse, yet it had large horns upon its head and two great wings protruding from its back. It was almost as tall as a giant before him and, to make things worse, it was looking directly at him.

"Now, make your choice." the monster said.

Eirik did not speak at first, bewildered as he was by what he had been shown and told. Surrounded was he by vampires, as powerful as Serana if not more powerful. There would be no way of escape if he chose not to accept this gift. He looked down at his right hand, remembering the pain he felt when the spike ran it through. That would all be gone away if he chose this gift. He would never die, he would be able to look any dragon in the eye without fear, or finally silence Crixus' arrogant mouth, or charge the lines of the Imperial Legion without fear of taking hurt. Power was what lay before him, and who better to receive this gift than he, the Dragonborn of legend?

But then he thought again on what he had been considering. It would mean a lifetime living in the shadows, for humans - no, his shield-brothers, his friends, the Companions, the Stormcloaks, even Lydia...even Mjoll - would attack him on sight. He would be to them an abomination. He could never live with them again, or with any human ever again. He would never feel the warmth of Mjoll's embrace or a friend's hand-shake: he would never feel warmth again, only the icy chill of death that he had felt when Serana touched him. But he would also never die, which meant that his birthright, Sovngarde, would be closed to him forever. The gods would forsake him, for he would be beyond them. It would not be life, not without them...

"I'm sorry," he spoke at last. "I refuse."

"You disappoint me," Harkon said, his smile turning to a frown. He turned his back on Eirik, then transformed back into the 'human' form - if human he could be called - in which Eirik had first seen him. "Still, you have trespassed on the home of my family and clan, for that alone you deserve to die." There were hisses and roars aimed at Eirik from those at the table, but Harkon held up his hands.

"However," he continued. "You have returned what is most precious to me, and for that, I grant you your life, what little worth it may be. Go now, I banish you from this place. Leave, Eirik of the Dawnguard, with these words of warning: if ever we cross paths, whether face to face or before my servants, I will not show this pittance of mercy to you again, swine!"

Eirik said nothing as he began to walk away from the hungry eyes of those gathered at the table about him, all of them looking directly at him. Then suddenly the Altmeri vampire Vingalmo appeared in front of him, barring his way with a malicious grin on his face.

"Oh, and one last word of caution, my prey," Harkon said to Eirik.

"What is that?" Eirik asked.

In a sudden blur of motion, Harkon was now mere feet away from Eirik, a menacing smile upon his bearded face as he looked down at the 'little' human.

"Fear the night."

* * *

**(AN: This chapter is brought to you by "Wheel of Sun" by _Bathory_. Also, I've decided that I've made Eirik naive and self-doubting enough, he's obviously come through literally hell and, while still one-handed, he needs to become more confident and less doubting. If he were a woman, you would want him to be self-sufficient, wouldn't you?)  
**

**(Also, I had a random encounter, based on what you find in the game. I honestly have no idea why those are important or what purpose they serve, save only to hammer in that Skyrim "is one of the most dangerous places in Tamriel." I don't know, but I made it important.)  
**

**(No, Harkon is not all-knowing. I think I may have said it before, but he had his agents follow Eirik and saw him go to the Dawnguard fort, so obviously that's how he knows how he's 'Dawnguard'.)**


	58. Attack on Whiterun

**(AN: Yes, yes it is! That response alone made my day and brought me back here to keep working on this next chapter!)**

**(As for healing spells, yes, they are in the game, but obviously Eirik is not as proficient in magicka as he was in my play-through of _Skyrim_ [in that, he had high lockpicking, high armor rating, high restoration, high alchemy, moderate archery, maxed out two-handed...yeah, you get the idea]. So yeah, didn't want to make it too easy for him. Also I did want there to be some limits. Some [like my mother] can say that a fantasy world can have whatever you want and while that is true, there needs to be limits and some sort of internal consistency. Regrowing bones would be something that a mere Restoration mage would find hard to do. Even in _The Chamber of Secrets_, Skele-Grow was not an instant bone-regrowing potion: it was a long and very painful process. I liked that, because it showed that even with magic, there were not always insta-fixes, just like in real life. So obviously that rule applies here.)**

* * *

**Attack on Whiterun  
**

_There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red  
Who came riding to Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead_

These were the opening stanzas to the old folk song _Ragnar dem Röd_, known formally among those who did not speak the old Nordic tongue as "Ragnar the Red." A fine but bloody tale, like most of the old Norse hymns of heroes and their brave deeds. Today, Eirik had those words buzzing around in his head as he rode a horse loaned from Rorikstead back to his home in Whiterun. Of course, merely thinking about that song brought other things to his mind about the legend as well. Whether or not it was true that he had been slain by Matilda the Shield-maiden or whether that was a humorous addition Eirik knew not - perhaps the bards at the college in Solitude would know - part of him felt as though, recently, he had lost something of his strength. Recently, he had watched as he walked helplessly across Skyrim, his pride trodden under the boots of Serana. Part of him wondered if this his legend, being the prophesied Dragonborn, being written by so many women, would end up with him slain at a shield-maiden's hand, called out as a liar and a drunkard, just like Ragnar.

But another thought appeared in his mind, one that was seemingly weaker and less important than the first thought, but just as persistent. He could not give up merely because others had had their tales rewritten by powerful women. He would forge ahead and learn how to fight with his left-handed. He smiled as he thought of how the bards would sing the tale of "Eirik One-Hand" or "Eirik the Left-Handed", or whatever epitaph fate would give him when he reached the end of his warrior's trail. That alone would be worth fighting on. So with a smile on his face, he urged his horse onward, eager to be back in Whiterun and with his beloved Lioness.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Eirik finally arrived before the gates of Whiterun. He brought the horse up to the stable and tied the horse up in the stalls. Once done, he made his way up the hill and walked up to the gates of the city. The guards opened the doors and he passed on through into the Plains District. While he made his slow, plodding path towards Breezehome, he noticed several people out of their usual places. He saw someone who looked like Arcadia, the old Cyrodilian woman who owned the alchemist's shop called Arcadia's Cauldron, milling about the market-stands. He saw a hooded figure walking behind Fralia Grey-Mane's jewelry shop in front of the Bannered Mare.

Eirik turned them to Breezehome and pushed open the doors. The first thing he felt was a heavy, iron-clad figure throw itself into her arms. He felt warm, moist lips pressing against his cheek, then onto his lips.

"My love!" Mjoll sighed. "It's good to see you again."

"Indeed!" Eirik replied, looking down at what she was wearing. It was a carved suit of Nordic armor, in similar fashion to that which Frea of the Skaal had worn. "What is this?"

"A gift I found here when I came back from Dimhollow," Mjoll replied. "There was a small note lying on it." She removed from beneath her armor a sheet of parchment and handed it to Eirik. Upon it was written this:

_A gift for the bride. C._

"Crixus!" Eirik chuckled. "I'm surprised at how much he's changed."

"It was a nice gesture," Mjoll replied. "I should find him and thank him for this: it's a good, strong suit of armor."

"Where's Lydia?" Eirik asked.

"Over here, my thane!" a voice replied. Eirik walked across the main hall, past the hearth, and came to the dining table at the farthest end of the house. There stood Lydia, a tankard in her hand and someone hiding behind her back.

"Good to see you again, Lydia," Eirik greeted. "Cheerful as always?"

"I have reason to be serious, my thane," Lydia replied.

"Have you two been getting along?" Eirik asked, turning to Mjoll.

"We have been getting along just fine," Lydia replied. "But it wasn't Mjoll about whom I was talking." Lydia stepped aside, and Eirik saw the one who was hiding behind her.

"Hello, Eirik!" Aerin greeted, waving his hand. "It's been a long time since I've seen you! How have your travels been? Oh, by the Eight! What happened to your hand?"

"Aerin," Eirik coughed. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I followed you two here," Aerin said. "Then I made my way to Whiterun when the storm hit and this _very_ enthusiastic huscarl kept me locked up in the spare room back here!"

"He's exaggerating," Lydia replied. "I let him out to walk around the hold and buy things to eat."

"I think I should be saying," Eirik continued, turning to Aerin. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, I'm living here now." He replied without hesitation.

"What?" Eirik asked.

"That's what he said," Lydia replied.

"I'm living here now," Aerin repeated.

"But what about Riften?" Eirik asked. "I thought you lived there."

"It's been hell living there with Maven Black-Briar in charge," Aerin sighed. "So I thought I'd move in with you two! Mjoll told me that it's not the same as Riften all over Skyrim: I've always wanted to see the rest of this place, and now's my chance!"

"You're a grown man," Eirik began. "You have a house of your own, and there's not much room here for anyone else."

"Oh, that's alright," Aerin replied. "I'll sleep in your room."

"What?" Eirik asked.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about me," Aerin stated. "I won't sleep in your bed, the chair's just fine until we can buy an extra bed."

Eirik groaned, then turned to Mjoll. "Mjoll, please, help me."

"Listen," Mjoll replied. "I'm very grateful that you're back, but I can't be part of this discussion. I have to sleep."

She walked over to stairs and made her way up and disappeared, the door closing behind her.

"Poor Mjoll," Aerin sighed.

"What's wrong with her?" Eirik asked.

"Like you'd know," Lydia retorted.

"You know, you really need to discipline her," Aerin stated. "She's far too insolent for a servant."

"I don't need to be told how to discipline my huscarl!" Eirik replied. "What I need is..."

He came to a halt when, just outside the walls of Breezehome, Eirik heard a voice cry out and a bell ringing. Eirik drew out his shield and turned to Lydia.

"Come with me," he said.

"I am your sword, my thane!" Lydia replied, drawing her sword out of its sheath.

"Good, because I need one," Eirik smirked, then made his way to the door.

"Wait a minute!" Aerin interjected, following after the two of them as they left the house. "We are not through here!"

Once outside, Eirik saw that the sun was already sinking below the Wrothgarian mountains. But near at hand, he could hear something hissing and shouts and Whiterun guards drawing their bows and swords and charging towards the marketplace. Suddenly Eirik saw the dark, hooded figure he had seen before standing amidst the hold soldiers. In one moment, he turned about and Eirik saw a familiar flash of yellowish-red light in its eyes.

"Die, Dawnguard!" a voice hissed.

There was a sudden blur and Eirik was thrown to the ground hard, as though a dragon had struck him down with its tail. The beast was now on top of him, hissing down at him with its sharpened teeth.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

Unfortunately, the vampire had not been close enough to explode his head all to oblivion. The vampire, however, was thrown off his chest and went flying up into the twilight sky. Lydia held out her hand and took Eirik's right, but he cried out.

"Ah, damn! No!" he groaned.

"You can't stay on your back, my thane!" Lydia replied.

"I fucking know!" Eirik groaned in reply. "But don't touch my right hand again!"

"As you wish, my thane," Lydia stated, then seized Eirik by his long hair and lifted him up onto his feet.

"So what," she asked. "You're just a Shouting shield now?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Eirik replied.

"So I guess you won't be punishing me by keeping me to mind the house, then," Lydia replied.

"Are you kidding?" Eirik asked. "I'll need you to get rid of Aerin."

"I tried enough while you were gone," she replied. "Still, I don't think now is the appropriate time for talk!"

Suddenly the vampire lunged at them again, but Lydia threw herself between Eirik and the vampire, just barely knocking it out of its leap.

"Watch the hands!" Eirik shouted. "One swipe and it'll kill you!"

"Won't be a problem, my thane!" Lydia retorted.

Eirik, now at Lydia's side, drew out his shield and readied for the imminent counter attack from the vampire. For a long while there was nothing, then a scream broke the haunting silence and they knew where it was. But the vampire was quick and the moment they turned towards the scream, the vampire had leaped upon Eirik again. But he was not alone this time. Lydia drove her sword into its back, but the blow barely missed the heart and only sent the beast howling in pain and recoiling.

"Take off its head!" Eirik shouted.

Lydia redrew her sword, then brought her sword down upon the back of the vampire's neck. Blood was sprayed all over Eirik's face as veins started bursting under her attack.

"No!" Eirik coughed as blood was pouring into his eyes. "Not now! Not with me right under him!"

But Lydia attacked again, sending more blood into Eirik's face. The vampire was now writhing and flailing about, and Eirik had to hold his shield in place to keep from having his face ripped apart by its swinging arms. Large chucks of wood and steel were being ripped off the targe's face, but beneath, Eirik was safe. Suddenly there was one last blow, followed by a _thunk_ and then all was still.

"Did we kill it?" Lydia asked.

Eirik removed the shield and fell the dead weight of a lifeless body on top of him. He spat the blood of the beast out of his mouth, hoping that it would not make him sick, then clumsily pushed himself up onto his feet.

"Yes," he said. "It's dead."

Suddenly there was another cry, and he heard someone pointing and yelling. Eirik turned wearily about and saw someone lying in the street, opposite Breezehome. He made his way as Arcadia, the one who had seen the body, joined him as well. It was then that Eirik noticed that it was Aerin who had screamed as the vampire made a swift attack and had left some serious gashes in his arm.

"Aerin!" Eirik said. "Speak to me, man! What happened?"

"That thing..." the Cyrodilian groaned. "It bit me!"

"By all the gods!" Eirik muttered, then turned to Lydia. "Come here! Help me take him inside! We'll have to leave in the morning, before all is lost!"

"Wait a moment," Arcadia interjected. "Young man, when did this happen?"

"Just a few moments ago," Aerin replied.

"There might still be some hope of a swift recovery," Arcadia replied.

"You know about vampires?" Eirik asked.

"Not about vampires," the old Cyrodilian woman replied. "But I've heard of cases like this in Morrowind, and they do have vampires in Cyrodiil. This wound is rather recent, so he should be fine. It usually takes the venom about three nights to reach the heart, after which only the gods could bring him back."

Eirik sighed, but felt also extremely foolish. In Morthal, he had jumped foolishly to rush Jehanne to Falion, fearing that her life was in danger. He now felt even more the fool for having been so brainless.

"Yes," Arcadia mused as she examined Aerin's wound. "This shouldn't be too difficult. I have a potion back at my store that might just do the trick."

"Can you get it for us?" Eirik asked. "I'll pay you whatever you need!"

"Of course I will!" Arcadia sighed. "Just hold your breeches and let me head back to the Cauldron for it." She rose to leave, then turned back to Eirik. "By the way, you look rather pale. You could be coming down with Ataxia, I've got something for that."

"I'm Nordic," Eirik retorted. "Of course I'm pale!"

"Well, that's no excuse!" she replied, then turned and left, muttering something about foolish, stupid people who think they know better than a trained apothecary.

Eirik then turned to Aerin. "Just rest easy. You'll be fine."

Later that evening, after Arcadia had administered her treatment to Aerin, he was back in Breezehome. He was sleeping in Eirik's bed since, as Arcadia demanded in slow, drawn-out sentences as though she were speaking to a child, an invalid or someone who couldn't speak the Common Tongue, he would still be very weak and needed lots of rest. In the main room, Eirik paced back and forth while Lydia and Mjoll sat at the table, looking up at him and his worried countenance. He had already explained to them what had happened with Serana after he left Dimhollow and headed west.

"You should have your hand looked at, dear," Mjoll said. "It might have gotten something."

"She's right," Lydia replied, then scoffed. "Well, I'll be damned! The day has come that I agree with Mjoll!"

"This attack is puzzling me," Eirik said. "It seems that Lord Harkon said that he would let me go, yet sent this assassin to kill me. I'm sure that his arrival wasn't a coincidence."

"So," Mjoll interjected. "Write a letter, tell Isran of the Dawnguard about this. Maybe he'll be able to help, send somebody who could..."

"Don't you see?" Eirik asked, holding up his right hand. "I can't write! I can't fight, I can't hold a pen, I can't do anything anymore!" In his rage, he removed the sack from off his shoulders and threw it against a wall.

"That won't help any," Mjoll retorted.

"I'm sick and tired of being useless!" Eirik replied. "A true Nord is supposed to be self-sufficient. Crixus, that smug, Thalmor cock-sucking bastard, was right about that, at least! Now look at me!" He looked down at his right hand. "Aerin almost died today because of me."

"But he's still alive," Mjoll stated. "He will live another day because of you. You're not useless, dear! You never have been."

But he threw himself down on the table, while Mjoll and Lydia then continued talking among themselves. Their conversation was mostly about Eirik and how he, rarely but quite profoundly, would loose himself to his anger. Then they went on about Aerin and Lydia kept trying to get Mjoll to tell her why he hadn't stayed in Riften. Eirik, meanwhile, was looking down at two things that had fallen from the sack when he threw it against the wall. One was tiny, an amulet that once belonged to a Nordic woman living among the Skaal. He had been trusted with laying it upon the gravestone of her parents in Falkreath, yet it had sat forgotten in his sack for so many long weeks. The other was something he had also forgotten, something that, were it not for Serana, he would have continued to forget until it were too late.

The other thing was the Elder Scroll.

"What's wrong, dear?" Mjoll spoke up, noticing that he was now preoccupied and his temper had subsided.

"I know what I have to do now," he said. He then turned to both of them. "We're going back to Riften."

"We?" Lydia asked.

"Aerin needs to return there, to recover from this attack," he said. "We'll hire a wagon to take him and go on horse-back to make sure he arrives safely. Once there, we can visit Fort Dawnguard and tell Isran about this. Afterwards..." He reached down with his left hand and pulled up the amulet.

"Afterwards," he said with finality. "I'm going home."

* * *

**(AN: Well, I thought I would continue with the story the way I had intended, but seeing as how I gave Eirik a crippling handicap, I decided that I'd rush a few things along and get that hand fixed asap.)**

**(What did you think of the attack on Whiterun? Definitely won't be the first. That whole beginning part and Eirik's inner conflict, driving him to take charge and be more assertive and less self-doubting will definitely go somewhere, it's only just begun here.)  
**

**(Also a little fun thing about my adventures in _Skyrim_. When I married Mjoll, Aerin didn't move into Breezehome...but I did lose Lydia. She wasn't killed, there was no gravestone in the Hall of the Dead in Whiterun, she just...disappeared. The reason, I think, that Aerin didn't move in was because I had Mjoll as my follower as well as my wife [so she went with me wherever I went]. Once _Dawnguard_ came out and I had to send Mjoll home, that was when Aerin decided to move in. Lydia, however, remained lost. That won't be happening in this story, she has yet to have her finest hour.)**


	59. Blind Seeking the Blind

**(AN: Yes, I'm probably going to cut out "A New Order". I've already got quite a handful of primary and secondary characters as it is and may even introduce more [hint hint], so those just serve the purpose of that quest only and not much. Sorry. But they do happen, though just...while Eirik was away.)**

**(I would like to say, however, that the lore does say that the Dawnguard are extremists who'd burn down a whole village just because they think a vampire is there, and yet in the game, they don't seem that extreme. Possibly the only extreme thing is Isran forcing new recruits to bathe in sunlight in the rotunda oculus-thing.)**

* * *

**Blind Seeking the Blind**

Preparation took nowhere nearly as much time as they had feared. With a few coins from Eirik's purse, they were able to hire Bjorlam to take Aerin to Riften while they accompanied him on horseback. Eirik and Mjoll would share the horse he had purchased in Rorikstead while Lydia rode a white stallion from the Whiterun stables which was not fully broken.

From what they had inquired from Bjorlam, it was the third day of Sun's Dusk, the penultimate month of the year, when, swords and provisions all gathered, they hit the open road and set out east, for Riften. They went at a slow pace, for Bjorlam was in so rush and Aerin, while still weak from the attack, was able to endure the ride. As they left Whiterun and galloped slowly along Bjorlam's cart, they could see that winter was already on its way even here in the lower lands of Whiterun. The wind was especially cold and there was a hint of snow in the air that fell to the ground and melted: cold as it was, it wasn't cold enough for a true snow-fall in the lowlands. The mountains, of course, were completely covered in snow - but, of course, when were they not?

As they rode in silence, Mjoll at the front end of the saddle because, obviously, she had use of both of her hands, Eirik clung to her strong, bulky Nordic armor with one hand while looking at his useless right hand once again. He had heard stories of hapless adventurers falling in the wilds of Skyrim by more than just an arrow to the knee. The foolish ones from the south-lands, unaccustomed to the cold, harsh Nordic weather, sometimes ended up frozen as they tried to pass the Jerall Mountains. Some made it into Skyrim proper but, once again, froze to death on the horns of her cold, merciless mountains. Eirik looked at his hand and, for a moment, the thought came to him to run out into the coldest part of the mountains and let the cold freeze his right hand, then have it cut off. It wasn't doing any use to him anymore, and it only pained him more if someone bumped or nudged into him.

Once they reached the Stormcloak camp, they found Eirik's horse had been kept waiting for his return. Several had begun making wagers on whether he had survived or not, but Eirik didn't care. It was good to have his favorite mare back again. This he mounted up on his own, despite offers of help from Mjoll and Lydia, and then the three of them returned to Bjorlam's carriage and continued on the path eastwards, towards Riften.

* * *

At last, on the evening of the third day of Sun's Dusk, they arrived at the gates of Riften, weary and eager for rest. But for them rest would not be, only a quick respite as they made their way into further darkness and danger. They had had very few encounters on the open road, mostly just wolves or trolls, but the wolves were easily scattered after a few arrows were fired into them and the trolls only threw stones at the horses, but none of them hit. Bjorlam was brought to a halt at the gates of Riften by the Imperial guards there, where he explained the situation. They didn't buy it, but when they saw that the passenger he was carrying had been Imperial, they gave Bjorlam the go-ahead to hitch up his wagon at the stables.

While he was hitching up the wagon, Mjoll, Eirik and Lydia carried Aerin back to his house. Thankfully, he had only locked it and not done the foolish thing in selling it upon his fool-hardy attempt to move in. Eirik hoped and prayed that his time of recovery would grant him a little more sense than to do this again. Once he was placed safely in bed, Mjoll wrote a few words on a note that described what had happened and where she had gone. They then left the house, locked it up, then practically ran back to the stables and retrieved their horses before a Thieves Guild member picked their pockets.

Under the cover of darkness, they left Riften and made their way south and eastward. Once they believed they were a respectable distance away from the watchtowers of Riften, Lydia and Mjoll lit up a pair of torches, which they carried at the vanguard as they carried on towards Fort Dawnguard. Mjoll knew the way, so she was in front, with Lydia coming up after her and Eirik trying to keep his horse from falling behind with only one hand. They rode on in silence until they heard the sound of the waterfall. Mjoll told them in a whisper that they were getting close when they heard howls and the clash of steel. The noise of battle was resounding loudly in the night air just beyond them in the vale.

With haste they urged their horses onward, drawing swords and readying to charge into a horde of vampires. Eirik remained at the back, clutching his shield and angrily wishing that he could be part of the battle. Beyond he saw two torches tossed aside from the horses, then the sound of clashing steel and Lydia and Mjoll shouting their cries of war. He could only stand back in frustration, wishing to be part of this.

At last the noise of war ended and he could hear Lydia calling him forward. Slowly he brought his horse up the slope that led to the castle. Around him, in the dim light of torches, he could see the bodies of many men and women wearing the leather and steel plate of the Dawnguard. He also saw the body of a huge snow troll clad in armor like a beast of war, lying among the slain. He half-thought that the beast had been something the vampires brought with them, but in the light he could also catch that the marks on its body were like scratches: this beast had been captured by the Dawnguard and unleashed upon the vampires. Their bodies were the headless ones being dragged off to a pile to be burned, along with any Dawnguard who had been infected.

"Halt!" a Breton's voice called out. "Who goes there?"

Eirik saw in the dim light several Dawnguard soldiers drawing back cross-bows and aiming them at him. He had heard of these used in Cyrodiil, though not as frequently in Skyrim. They fired with such power that even steel armor couldn't turn their bolts. If they chose to shoot him, it would be over. He couldn't bring up his shield in the amount of time it would take for even one of them to fire.

"I'm Eirik," he replied. "I'm a friend of the Dawnguard."

"Are you now?" the Breton asked. "Isran said something about you, Eirik. But we have to make sure about your companions."

"Mjoll has been here before," Eirik said.

"I am talking about _this_ one!" the Breton replied, turning to Lydia.

"She's my huscarl," Eirik replied. "I can vouchsafe her."

"Take her to the dungeons," the Breton said to those at his side.

"Yes, Celann," one of them said as they approached Lydia.

"Oh, you think you can take me?" Lydia retorted. "This is bullshit! If you think I'm some kind of vampire, I'm not!"

"Please," Eirik interjected. "This is preposterous! She's no more vampire than I am, or Mjoll is!"

"Nevertheless," Celann replied. "It's standard procedure. We can't have just anyone who claims to be a friend march into the castle, not after dark when _they_ have free reign of the night."

"If you want to behave that way," Eirik replied. "Then you'll have to put us all in your dungeons! I'm not letting my huscarl be imprisoned because of your rules! She's no vampire!"

"There's only one way to prove that," Celann said. "And we can't do that until morning, therefore she stays in the dungeon!"

"We're going with her," Eirik stated, pushing himself off his horse and walking towards the shorter Breton. "Do you think Isran will be pleased when he hears that his lieutenant has been shouted to pieces for being an idiot?"

Celann cleared his throat, but did not reply for Eirik was looking very angry in the dim light. For a moment the Breton quivered, then cleared his throat again and at last spoke. "As you wish, Eirik."

* * *

"You didn't have to do this," Lydia spoke.

It was now some time before dawn. Eirik, Mjoll and Lydia sat in a jail cell deep within the walls of the castle. Celann, who had locked them away, reminded Lydia that the walls were thick and the bars strong enough that it would be difficult even for her "vampire's strength." The cell was more or less bare, save for shackles upon the walls with skeletons hanging from them. The only source of light came from gratings in the ceiling high above. Only a winged vampire lord could possibly reach them, but they aimed their shafts of blue pre-dawn glow directly upon the shackles. These were guaranteed to provide adequate torture for captured vampires.

"I'm sick of doing nothing," Eirik sighed. "At least I did something for you, since you've done so much for me."

"But that's not how it should be," Lydia replied. "I am the huscarl, you are my thane. I am to do your bidding, not the other way around. And what would Mjoll say to this?"

"She will respect my decision to help my servant and my friend," Eirik stated.

At this Lydia said nothing and looked away. Mjoll, meanwhile, was sleeping soundly next to Eirik. None of them had been shackled, so they were more or less free to pace about the cell at will or find some kind of comfort in the empty stone floors and rough walls of the cell.

Within a few moments, Celann appeared with two other guards and opened the cell. The guards took Lydia up between them and Eirik woke up Mjoll and they followed them out into the main room with the domed ceiling and its oculus, which at the moment was closed and gave the room an eerie feeling of dark hollowness. Lydia was placed in the middle of the room, then the guards stepped back and the oculus was opened. Whether it was later in the day than they thought or whether the Dawnguard had an array of glass mirrors to reflect the sun's light through the oculus, Eirik could not guess. Nevertheless, the light of the sun shone down on where Lydia stood. She didn't seem to respond.

"I'm very sorry about that," Celann said. "But we have to be certain, Isran's orders."

"I'd like to have a word with Isran," Eirik said. "I want to talk to him about how he treats my servants."

"Well, isn't that fortunate?" Celann replied. "Because he would like to talk to you."

"Where is he?" Eirik asked.

"Right here," a voice suddenly spoke up. Eirik turned and saw Isran standing there, dressed in full regalia. "Give me your report. What did you find in Dimhollow Crypt?"

Beginning with the battle, Eirik told Isran all that he had encountered, leaving no detail out. There was little in this account that Mjoll and Lydia had not heard, but they remained attentive otherwise, eager to hear something they might have overlooked. Eirik finally finished with the attack on Whiterun. From the look on his face, Isran was not pleased by what he heard.

"By the Divines," he sighed at last. "This couldn't get much worse, though I suppose it's a good thing you're not dead, or one of them. Still, this is the greatest achievement for them yet: they have a powerful vampire lord and we have nothing." He looked towards the gate. "Even _less_ than nothing. It was only a matter of time before they found us: the price we pay for openly recruiting. We've lost too many good men and women in one night's attack than all the bloodsucking bastards we've managed to kill this whole year." Eirik saw that several other people in the same kind of leather and steel armor that Isran was wearing - complete with badges shaped in the likeness of the sun - were gathering around the rotunda. Isran noticed them as well, for he turned about and addressed them all.

"The very best evidence indicates," he said to them. "That the enemy against which we are now engaged is even more dangerous than we had originally believed. Last night they attacked us and killed seven of our number despite all of our preparations and came within arrow-shot of the gates of this castle. This is not acceptable! The only reason we are still alive is because of the sacrifice of our brothers. Next time, it will not be the same results. Our enemy is ruthless and without mercy, as those of us who survived the attack of last night know all too well. If we're going to survive this, we're going to have to be as ruthless as the vampires.

"From what our comrade Eirik tells us, they are able to fielding effective attacks even in daylight. Therefore I stress upon you all to remain vigilant at all times. We are not safe, whether by day or night, from these creatures. Avoid sleep if you can: sleep is for the dead. In the days ahead, if you remember nothing else, remember this: when it comes to vampires, if you're sloppy or careless, you're dead and good people will die because of you. I've managed to survive this long because I don't take chances, I cover my tracks and keep my eyes open. If you're smart or have any wish to survive, you would do well to do likewise."

There were no cheers or smiles from this, for it was grim news. A few nodded or grumbled in agreement, but the rest of them merely stood there in stoned silence and then dispersed. Isran, however, did not disperse and turned his eyes now to Eirik.

"Come with me," he said.

The three of them followed Isran up a flight of spiraling stairs which led to the second story of the castle. Once through, they crossed a parapet that wound around the outside ring of the rotunda before passing into a feasting hall which must have once belonged to whoever owned this castle before the Dawnguard. From here they turned right into what looked like an old storage room. Isran lit a torch and led the way inward. Eirik let out a gasp of surprise and disgust. On the farthest end of the wall hung a pair of shackles and a blood-soaked rack leaning against the other side of the room, but it was not so much the instruments of torture which drew Eirik's eyes as much as the one whose hands were shackled on to the walls.

"Serana!" he exclaimed.

"You know this beast?" Isran retorted. "I take it she's the one you found in Dimhollow Crypt?"

"Aye," Eirik nodded. "But what is she doing here?"

"Alright, beast," Isran turned to Serana. "Start talking."

Eirik walked towards Serana, whose eyes opened as he approached. Surprisingly enough, a smile was on her face as she opened her eyes.

"Eirik," she greeted. "I'm guessing you weren't expecting to see me again."

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Looking for you, obviously," she replied. "I'd rather not be here personally." She turned to Isran and hissed at him, barring her fangs. He drew a large warhammer while Lydia drew her sword and Mjoll reached for Grimsever.

"How did this happen?" Eirik asked, gesturing to her shackles.

"Him," Serana nodded at Isran. "Said he didn't trust a monster roaming free in his castle, even one who came in peace." Using her feet, she pushed herself as close as she could towards Eirik, straining at her chains, and whispered. "I could be out of these shackles in no time, don't worry."

"Silence, monster!" Isran shouted. "Tell your story and be done with it!"

She hissed at him again, then turned back to Eirik. "And here I thought your woman was distrustful."

"I am no man's woman!" Mjoll retorted.

"Can we get this over with?" Isran shouted.

Serana rolled her eyes. "Might as well, before he loses his patience." She turned back to Eirik.

"So, what did you want me for?" he asked.

"I wanted to tell you about something," she replied. "Well, it's about me...and the Elder Scroll that was buried with me."

"What about it?" he asked.

"Have you ever heard of the Night Eternity?"

At that mention, both Eirik and Lydia gasped collectively. Mjoll turned to Lydia, who succeeded in hiding her surprise, but Eirik was still focused on Serana.

"Perhaps," he replied diplomatically. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"It all comes back to my father," Serana began. "As I'm sure you've noticed, he's not exactly a good person, even by vampire standards. He didn't used to be that way, not until he read the prophecy about the Night Eternity and...just kind of lost himself in it."

"What is this prophecy about?" Eirik asked.

"Something about vampires no longer fearing the sun," Serana answered. "Or something like that, it's mostly just vague and murky, like all kinds of prophecies. But that's what he's after..."

"A way to control the sun?"

"And with it, every living creature in Tamriel," Serana added. "But, my mother didn't like the idea of inviting an all-out war with Tamriel, so I was hidden away with the Scroll." She cast an eye at Isran, then turned back to Eirik. "That's all I have to say for now."

"Alright," Isran spoke up. "You've heard what the beast has to say. Now tell me, is there any reason I shouldn't cut off her head right now?"

"You heard her," Eirik returned.

"I heard some old wives' tale about eternal night and vampires trying to put out the sun," Isran retorted, crossing his arms. "About as credible as those Nordic legends about a Dragonborn, if you ask me. Why, you don't actually believe any of that, do you?"

"She's trying to help you!" Mjoll interjected. "By the gods, can't you put your hatred aside and try to see the larger picture?"

"Never!" he replied angrily. "Hate keeps me strong against blood-sucking fiends like this one." Serana hissed at him.

"She obviously knows that this is a dangerous place," Eirik said. "Why else would she come here?"

"Maybe it has a death wish?" Isran asked. "Maybe it's just insane? I don't know and I don't really care."

"If you won't trust her," Eirik said. "Then trust me. I'm one of the Dawnguard, and I'm human. I want to do my part in this fight of yours."

Isran sighed. "You better know what you're doing." He then removed from his belt a chain of keys, which he then brought upon the shackles on Serana's arms.

"Don't get comfortable, fiend," he said to Serana. "You're not a guest, so don't feel like one. You're an accessory, a resource." He turned to Eirik. "If it lays a finger on anyone here, I'll have _your_ head hanging from the gatehouse on a spike." He then turned back to Serana as he undid the last lock. "Don't make me regret my sudden outburst of goodwill."

Serana slid from her shackles and landed on her feet. For some reason, though her wrists were neither scarred nor chaffed, she rubbed them and then turned to Isran with a wicked smile on her face and said in a voice thick with sarcasm: "Thank you for your kindness. I'll remember it the next time I'm hungry."

"Fuck off, blood-sucker!" Isran retorted.

She turned then to Eirik, who was on his way out of the torture room with the others and motioned for her to follow. They came to the feasting hall, where they sat down at the table. Eirik sat at the head, with Mjoll pushing another chair along to his right side. Lydia sat at Mjoll's right and Serana sat across from Lydia.

"So," Eirik began. "Now that we're away from him, anything else you'd like to say?"

"Actually, there is," Serana said, then swept aside her cloak and produced the meter-long thing he had seen in the Crypt but hadn't spoken a word of it yet.

"Is that the Elder Scroll?" Lydia asked.

"It is," Serana replied, turning to Eirik. "We'll need it to stop my father."

"Good," Eirik nodded.

"It's good that Isran was wrong," Mjoll added. "How did you manage to keep that on you after Eirik left your family castle?"

"It's a long story," Serana replied.

"So," Eirik began. "Where shall we begin?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Serana stated. "I can't read it, and neither can my father."

"Well, who can read the Elder Scrolls?" Lydia asked.

"There was one," Eirik spoke up. "We were sent to Alftand to find an Elder Scroll by the dragon Paarthurnax. I don't know if I could read it or not."

"I remember this one time in Cyrodiil..." Mjoll spoke up.

"Oh, by the Nine!" Lydia exclaimed, letting her head fall face-first onto the table.

"Sheogorath take us all!" Serana added. "Don't you ever stop talking? You talk even in your sleep!"

"How would you know I talk in my sleep?" Mjoll replied.

"Why did you think I went after that bear?" Serana asked.

"I thought you wanted to warm us," Eirik interjected.

"I did," Serana answered. "And I was hungry, but I had to get away from her. I can't understand how you put up with it!"

"As I was saying," Mjoll said through clenched teeth. "When I was in Cyrodiil, I came across a group of old men in a monastery in the Jerall Mountains. They called themselves priests of the Cult of the Ancestor Moth. When I asked them what they were doing, they said they were preparing themselves."

"For what?" Eirik asked.

"Reading the Elder Scrolls," Mjoll continued. "At first I listened only idly, because I felt it was just a good story that these grey-bearded elders had to share and I was eager to learn. They said that they spend years preparing themselves to read the Scrolls because of the power within them. Repeated reading by those unprepared would rob one of their sight."

"So what, we need one of these Moth...priests to read the Scroll for us?" Serana asked. "Still, how is that going to help us?"

"She's right," Lydia added. "With the borders closed, there's no way to reach Cyrodiil."

"Maybe we could get Crixus to bring one up here?" Mjoll interjected.

"I don't feel right about getting him involved in this," Eirik shook his head. "For all we know, he might choose to aid them against us instead!"

"Excuse me," a voice spoke. One by one they turned and saw Isran, with a large, red-bearded Nord man, standing in the doorway. "I thought I heard you mention the Cult of the Ancestor Moth."

"Yes, we did," Eirik added.

"It might interest you to know," he added. "That one is currently in Skyrim. I was staking out the road when I saw him pass by."

"Do you know where he's staying now?" Serana asked.

"No, beast," Isran retorted angrily. "And I'm not going to waste my men looking for one. We're fighting a war against your kind, one I intend to win!" He then turned back to the Nord and continued his discussion.

"Well, _that_ was helpful!" Serana exclaimed. She picked up the Elder Scroll and buried it in her cloak as Isran noticed it lying on the table. She then left the hall, but not without hissing venomously at Isran as she passed him by. Lydia also gave him a scathing look, apparently none too happy about being treated like a prisoner for no reason. Mjoll followed after her but, while Eirik was bringing up the rear, Isran called out to him.

"If you're going to go after your Moth priest," he said. "Try asking around at the inns or talk to carriage drivers. Anyone who'd usually meet a traveler, they might have some answers. But, as I said before, I have a war to fight. You're on your own, Eirik."

"I understand," he replied, then turned and followed the women out of Fort Dawnguard.

* * *

**(AN: All quiet on the reviewing front so far. Please don't be afraid to review. They help getting chapters out there swiftly.)  
**

**(I did change a few things around, mainly having Mjoll mention the Moth priests rather than Serana, since the person who claims that Serana can't possibly predate Alessia's Cyrodilic Empire says that because she knows about the Moth priests, she's post-Empire. Even though, of course, the Elder Scrolls have existed since before the dawn of time and, since they were used to...well, you'll find out soon enough...in the Merethic Era it would stand to reason that the Order was created either in the late Merethic or early First Era and not be solely tied to the Empire just because it's in Cyrodiil.)**


	60. Recruitment

**(AN: Good point, _Le Fou_, about the Moth priest. I'll have to find some way of explaining that in the story. And, honestly, you ask why the Thalmor are evil? It's not enough that they rob the Empire of the worship of Talos [the only human god], or that they want to re-establish Elvish supremacy throughout Tamriel? Not that they killed all the Blades and started war with the Empire and drag people from their homes in the dead of the night for nothing more than worshiping who they choose: apparently that's not reason enough that they're bad.)**

* * *

**Recruitment**

So it was that, after meeting with Serana at the castle, Eirik decided that they would go to the first place they knew they could find information about Moth priests: Riften. True enough, it would be dangerous and there would definitely be Imperial troops about, but Eirik was willing to risk it. Hiding his blue scarf and with Serana throwing her hood over her head, the group made their way towards Riften.

Unfortunately, when they arrived at the gates of Riften, they heard from Hofgrir that the carriage had already left for Falkreath. Therefore, they would have to enter Riften and ask around the Bee and Barb for information on what they sought. As they passed through the gates of the city, Eirik was reminded once again just how poor the people in Riften had become under the new management. Eirik thought he had seen poor in the Ratways but now they were all over the streets. Perhaps it was because of the darkness of last night, but he had missed most of them in the dark. Now there was no way to avoid them.

"So many people," Serana whispered at Eirik's left. He turned to her and shook his head.

"It would be merciful," she replied. "They have nothing to look forward to, no one to help them."

"They have me," Mjoll added.

Slowly they made their way towards the Bee and Barb, but found that the main bridge over the canal was blocked by a congestion of people held up by a small group of Imperial soldiers. As they walked alongside the houses on the walkway that led to the Temple of Mara, Eirik saw that the Imperial soldiers were inspecting the belongings of the people they had stopped up.

"I wonder why they're doing this," Lydia mused aloud.

"They're Imperials, why else do you think?" Eirik said in jest.

"I remember Aerin saying something about a resistance," Mjoll added. "The Empire must have tightened security in response to attacks they've made."

"Resistance?" a voice spoke up. Eirik turned about and saw a Dunmer with gray-blue skin walking nearby. "If you're talking about the former city guards, that's hardly what I would call a resistance." He turned towards Mjoll and nodded. "Glad to see you back in Riften, Mjoll."

"Good to see you're still in health, Brand-Shei," she replied.

"What do you mean, they're no resistance?" Eirik asked.

"Exactly that," the Dunmer replied. "They're thugs and brigands, the lot of them. They enter the city and start attacking at random. Peh! Things are better off now that the Empire's back in Riften."

"You don't mean that, Brand-Shei," Mjoll said, shaking her head.

"Come along," Eirik said to Mjoll. "Looks like we've got another Imperial patrol coming our way. We should get inside the inn before we cause too much noise."

"That's no patrol," Mjoll said angrily.

Eirik noticed the tall, dark-haired Nordic woman in the attire of a Jarl standing in the midst of the Imperial soldiers. Mjoll, meanwhile, made her way towards the patrol and stood before them. The soldiers drew out their weapons, but from a command from the one in their midst, they halted.

"Hello, Mjoll," Maven Black-Briar said. "I see you're back in Riften. I thought you'd finally given up on these poor bastards."

"Not as long as you're here, you cold, heartless b*tch!" Mjoll retorted.

At this, Maven laughed. "Growl all you want, Lioness. Your threats don't impress me and you could never harm me even if you wanted to!"

Eirik and the others approached, but Mjoll turned towards them and told them to stand down, then turned with a venomous glare back towards the current Jarl of Riften.

"Is this what you've sunk down to?" Maven asked. "Accosting a Jarl on her way to do legal business at her family meadery?"

"Don't play cute with me, Maven," Mjoll retorted. "I'm watching you."

Once again, Maven smirked that smug, self-confident grin that assured everyone that she was invincible. "My dear, you have no idea who you're trifling with!" Her smile faded as she turned towards one of the soldiers. "Captain, it appears we have a dissenter on our hands. Make sure she's watched and followed wherever she goes in the hold."

"Yes, Jarl," the Imperial captain saluted.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Maven said, turning back to Mjoll. "I have important business to tend to. Now I suggest you turn around and rattle someone else's cage before you get hurt in a way even your precious magic won't be able to remedy." She flashed Mjoll a smile, then followed on with her escort to the Black-Briar meadery.

"One day you'll slip up!" Mjoll shouted after her. "And your Imperial friends won't be there to catch your fall!"

"Mjoll, please," Eirik spoke up. "This isn't a good idea."

"Why? Because she owns Riften?" she asked. "That doesn't stop you from fighting the Empire, though they own half of Skyrim!"

"He's right," Lydia said. "It's wiser to pick your battles than spend your whole life fighting off the whole world."

"No!" Mjoll insisted. "Maven Black-Briar has had this city under her thumb for far too long." She turned back to Eirik. "You're becoming complacent, aren't you? Just like the rest of Riften, willing to let that greedy, unfeeling b*tch own the town but never do anything about it?"

"Of course not!" Eirik retorted. "We'll get to the bottom of this, but now is not the time. Please, let's just get inside before we get arrested for being on Maven's bad-side."

With a groan of frustration, Mjoll followed them into the Bee and Barb. Eirik led the way, looking for an empty table. He had not walked a few feet when suddenly a drink was thrown in his face. He looked around and saw a dark-haired nobleman in fine clothing standing up with a smug look on his sharp, angular face.

"I've seen you around here," the man said. "From that sword, I take it you fancy yourself the adventuring type? Hah! I wager you wouldn't last in a real battle!"

"And just who are you, loud-mouthed dandy?" Eirik asked.

"I am Hemming Black-Briar!" he retorted. "And you will watch that tone! Dandy, I? I'll have you know that I was trained by some of the finest warriors in all of Skyrim to wield a blade as if it were an extension of my own arm!"

"Hard to believe in those clothes," Mjoll stated.

"Go home, Lioness," Hemming mocked. "Don't you have some food to cook for the beggars of this city?"

"Say that again, milk-drinker!" Mjoll returned angrily.

"Gladly!" he exclaimed. "I said get you back to kissing the filthy asses of the poor of this city!"

"You go home," Eirik said to Hemming. "You're drunk."

"How dare you!" he exclaimed, drawing out a switch and swinging it at Eirik. Out of blind reflex, Eirik held up his right arm to protect himself and the switch whipped his right hand. He cried out, but Hemming laughed. "See? Just as I suspected, you're just some pathetic freeloader, hardly worthy of the time of a gentleman!" He turned away, but Eirik wasn't done with him. With his left hand, he seized Hemming's right and began to squeeze. Hemming gasped in pain, whimpered and collapsed onto his knees.

"On your knees, b*tch!" Eirik groaned.

"Help me!" Hemming cried out. "Help me!"

A dark-haired Nord woman drew out a dagger and ran towards where Hemming was crying out. She thrust the dagger at Eirik's neck and demanded that he let him go. Behind him, he could hear Lydia drawing out her sword and Mjoll pulling out Grimsever.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the young woman said. "The moment you strike, everyone in the city will rise against you."

"I don't believe you!" Eirik retorted.

"Just go ahead and see for yourself," the woman threatened. "I dare you!"

Eirik groaned, then looked back at his companions. Mjoll had a grim expression on her face, as did Lydia. Serana, however, was still silent but shook her head when he turned to her. Eirik cursed under his breath, then released Hemming's hand. "So much for your sword prowess."

"Afraid of me?" Hemming retorted. "I knew you were all talk!"

"Milk-drinker!" Lydia shouted.

"You think this is the end?" he asked as he started walking out of the inn, the young woman in tow with dagger drawn. "I'm a Black-Briar! My mother owns this city! I'll see you publicly humiliated for this! Sooner or later, you're gonna get yours!"

Once they left, another figure stood up and approached them. This one, however, was clad in all black but, unlike Hemming, bore the impress of a true warrior.

"You certainly make a scene everywhere you go, Eirik," a familiar voice said.

"Crixus," Eirik greeted. "Never thought I'd see you here."

"Business," Crixus replied, then looked over his shoulder. "I see you've brought company. Come join us at our table."

"Our table?" Eirik asked.

Crixus led them over to two tables pushed together at the farthest end of the bar. There were at least eight people there, but two of them stood out. One was a middle-aged Redguard whose skin was so far, he could have passed for a very dark Cyrodilian. He wore leather armor over his traditional Hammerfell clothing and had upon his chin a long, thick beard that was strangely scraggly for a Redguard. Nearby him was his helmet, a turban similar to those of the people of Hammerfell, but wrapped around a helmet with a single, tapering spire upon it.

The other one was an Orc, almost as large as Eirik, but wearing a heavy cloak over his bulky armor. His face bore the scars and wounds typical of the life of an Orsimer, yet there was something strangely civilized as well as savage about him. He barred his tusks, one of which had been chipped at the pointed end, as Eirik joined their table.

"This is Gorak," Crixus said, introducing them to the Orc. "He fought with my company during the war with the Dominion. And this enterprising fellow is Shaddar, captain of the Red Dog."

Eirik introduced Lydia and Mjoll, but Serana held up her hand that he not mention her. She then went about collecting empty chairs for Lydia and Mjoll, while Eirik sat across from Crixus and ordered mead from Kee-Rava.

"This is a surprise," Eirik said. "I was under the impression, Crixus, that you were the type who had no friends, who traveled alone."

"And I was under the impression that you actually had half a brain," Crixus replied. "It seems we're both terribly misled." He drank from his tankard. "No, Shaddar is a business associate and Gorak is an old war veteran."

"And what business do you undertake, Shaddar?" Eirik asked.

"I am in the business of...aggressive trading," Shaddar replied with a smile.

"You mean you're a thief," Mjoll interjected.

"Theft is such an uncouth word," Shaddar continued. "Hardly befitting for what I do."

Mjoll rolled her eyes, but Eirik turned to Shaddar. "And what is it you do?"

"As my colleague has said," the Redguard continued. "I am the captain of a ship. We have put in at the port in Solitude to take on crew for our next voyage."

"So you're a pirate?" Eirik asked.

"Self-employed privateer," Shaddar corrected. "It is a much more honorable business than simple thieving. No offense to my colleague," He gestured to Crixus. "But a simple thief takes with very little thought to the one whose pocket he is lifting. No, as a captain of a privateering ship, I have more at stake than my own satisfaction, but the lives and loyalties of my crew. Therefore it is within our best interest not to go after heavily-armed merchant vessels, but those which so foolishly traverse the seas unguarded."

"It still sounds like theft to me," Mjoll replied with disapproval.

"Don't listen to her, Shaddar," Crixus said. "She's hung up about Maven Black-Briar and the Thieves Guild. Never listens to reason."

"And what part are you, Orc?" Eirik asked the large Gorak, who grunted at him.

"Gorak is our strong man," Shaddar stated. "Apart from an impressive career with the Imperial Legion, he also has quite the reputation in High Rock. Eh, now what was that name they called you?"

"The Giant-Tamer," growled Gorak in a deep, throaty voice.

"Ah yes, the Giant-Tamer," Shaddar exclaimed. "Truly marvelous, isn't it? I daresay, when I heard from Crixus about his acceptance, I was skeptical at first. But not all rumors are not true, my friend."

"And what about you?" Eirik turned back to Crixus.

"What about me?"

"What brings you back to Riften?"

"As I said, business." He looked at Eirik's right hand. "And from what I see, you've seen better days."

"It's nothing," Eirik dismissed, sliding his right hand under the table. "Still, I have a few things to say to you."

Crixus snickered. "And what is that? 'Ulfric should be High King of Skyrim?' 'Elisif is Tullius' b*tch?'"

"No," Eirik groaned. "And if you keep this up, I should just keep quiet."

"Good," Crixus sneered. "It's how all Nords should be."

"I just wanted to say," Eirik retorted. "Thank you, for the gift." He gestured to Mjoll's carved Nordic armor. "I'm sure it must have cost you a fortune."

"No small one," Crixus replied. "And I will expect some kind of compensation for that." Eirik looked at him fiercely, against which Crixus snorted. "I can't believe you're so dense. A gift is a gift, even in Cyrodiil."

"There is one other thing I want to ask you," Eirik continued. "I understand you've been around Skyrim."

"Unfortunately," Crixus groaned.

"And therefore have occasion to see many travelers."

"Perhaps. Any other obvious questions? Perhaps: 'Is snow cold?' or 'Is Masser red?'"

"Have you heard of any traveling Moth priests in Skyrim?" he asked.

Crixus halted, looked up at Eirik from the top of his mug, then placed it back down upon the table.

"Maybe," he said. "Though you won't find him."

"Why's that?" Eirik asked.

"Because no Stormcloak can walk up to the town of Dragon Bridge in broad daylight," Crixus replied. "That whole place is under the control of the Oculati."

"The who?"

"A secret society," Crixus said, leaning in as he spoke to Eirik in a whisper. "After the Thalmor wiped out the Blades, they were made the personal security force for the Emperor: the Penitus Oculatus. They'll be harder to crack than a few tired legionnaires posted in this back-water shit-hole." He leaned back then chuckled. "By the way, I have a question for _you_."

"And what's that?"

"Why don't you people ever hide your faces when you go into battle?"

"What do you mean?"

"You Stormcloaks," Crixus said. "I mean, you're rebels and you know that the Empire has a massive holding in Skyrim that grows every day, as well as the Thalmor, and yet you charge into battle, begging for Talos to be with you, with your face visible to the Imperial legion."

"Your point being?"

"Are you Nords completely incapable of thought?" Crixus asked. "Why don't you hide your faces in battle? Didn't it ever occur to you that Imperial or, by Boethiah's Fearstruck, Thalmor spies could be scouting out your campsites? They could connect your faces to your family and abduct them in the middle of the night?"

"We have no reason to fear discovery from the dead," Eirik replied ruefully. "We leave no survivors after our battles."

"That's not what I heard happened at Morthal last month," Crixus stated. "Still, wouldn't it be wise to cover your faces, hide your identities from the enemy?"

"A warrior does not hide his face from the enemy," Eirik replied, pride in his voice. "He looks his enemy dead in the eye, he welcomes a noble death, one that will bring him to his ancestors in Sovngarde."

"Ah yes, more Nordic warrior bullshit," Crixus groaned. "Just excuses to play the fool, I say."

"And what would you have?" Eirik asked.

"I would have you be sensible, for one thing!" Crixus replied. "Hide your faces. What use is fighting a war if the land you're fighting for is raped behind your backs because you were foolish enough not to hide your face?" He sighed. "And speaking of the war, have you read _The Bear of Markarth_ yet?"

"No, I haven't gotten the chance," Eirik replied.

"Uh-huh, I thought so," Crixus nodded, expecting such an answer. He then drained his mug, then spoke once again. "If you plan on going west, I suggest you stop in Falkreath. Find Rayya, tell her to return to Solitude and meet us there at the _Red Dog_."

"And what about you?" Eirik asked. "I thought you said if we ever crossed paths before your Imperial friends, you would kill me."

"So I did," Crixus chuckled.

"We're in the midst of Imperial territory," Eirik added. "So why do you make exception?"

"Firstly," Crixus said. "The Empire _will_ win the war. Your silver-tongued Talos cock-sucking leader can't hope to win against the Aldmeri Dominion, not without the Empire. As much as you idiot Nords want to conveniently ignore it, the Empire is the last hope for the survival of humans in Tamriel. Secondly, my friends are not part of the Empire. Shaddar raids East Empire Company ships as much as the trading vessels from here to Elsweyr. As for Gorak, well, he doesn't talk much about what happened after the Battle of the Wrothgarian Mountains. But what I can gather is that he went rogue and is as much on the run from the Empire as you Stormcloaks."

"I see," Eirik replied.

"Here," Crixus said, placing something wrapped in a cloth on the table and pushing it towards Eirik. "A friend of mine wanted me to give this to you, despite my protests to the contrary."

"Who is it from?" Eirik asked.

"My 'friend'," Crixus said. "Asked to remain anonymous."

"I thought you said you don't have any friends," Eirik stated.

Crixus smiled. "Well, it appears you don't know me nearly as well as you thought, doesn't it?"

Eirik sighed, then turned to the others. Lydia had already purchased a mug for herself and was drinking contentedly from it. Serana was standing behind them in the shadows, eying them all one by one in silence. Mjoll, meanwhile, was still where she sat next to Eirik, but yet seemed irritable. Eirik turned to her.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"I just need to sleep," she replied. At this Crixus snickered and it made Eirik's face grow red and his hands to clench in frustration.

"Alone," Mjoll said.

"I'll get us some rooms," Eirik said. As he was standing up, he felt an iron-strong had touch his shoulder.

"I'll be spending the night hunting, if you don't mind," Serana whispered in his ear. "I'll meet you at the stables in the morning, whenever you're ready to leave."

"Aye," Eirik nodded.

* * *

**(AN: As requested per the one who created Crixus, he makes a return. Also, I will try to give some of our secondary characters a little bit of back-story. Lydia has some, but I feel that she needs to have more. Mjoll, obviously, has a ton and she needs to start speaking up about it, especially concerning two major issues with her: 1] why she won't stop talking and 2] why she's so lenient with Aerin following her to Whiterun. Some of Serana's back-story is already in the game, but any extra elbow-room the game-creators may have left might be filled.)**

**(Remember, leave your reviews and questions regarding what you might have seen or heard.)**


	61. Chased Out

**(AN: Another thing I forgot to ask is if this story is well-explained or not. One of my goals at the beginning was making this story easy to digest for new-comers. That was one thing I liked about the game of _Skyrim_ more than _Oblivion_. [yes, how dare I prefer stream-lined gameplay aimed at casual gamers more than ugly CGI models and so much detail you have to give up your life just to play it!].)**

**(Although I am grateful for the reviews, I must remind you that this story is not, I repeat, NOT, going to be another "yay Empire!" fic. There are too damn many of them, on here and on tumblr! As I have said for the past sixty chapters [60!], medieval cultures didn't care about "racism": if you threatened them, they fought back [the Battle of Tours]. And not just the nobles, remember the Peasant's Revolt of 1381? And yes, the Thalmor _are_ that bad: they want to return Tamriel to how it was before the Empire, when Elves ruled the world. They don't care about "racism" either: hell, they even hate their fellow kin, the Dunmer and Bosmer and all the other Mer.)**

* * *

**Chased Out  
**

Eirik and Lydia slept on the floor of their rented room while Mjoll shared the bed. It was not exactly pleasant, for they slept on little else than the floor and a simple rug: nevertheless, this was nothing compared to sleeping on the cold, hard earth or in crevices in the mountains to shelter from the wind. So they slept soundly for a good long time. Some time in the early morning, however, Eirik found himself suddenly woken from out of his slumber. No matter how hard he tried, he could not force himself to sleep again. For some reason, he had a desire to see what it had been that Crixus had given him. In the dark, he crawled towards the table and fumbled about for something.

Moments later, there was the sound of creaking hinges. Pulling out his seax, he saw a dark shape crawling through the window, shrouded by the darkness. With knife in hand, he charged at the would-be thief: in any house in any part of Tamriel, this would be the proper response, but even moreso in Riften, the city of thieves. Suddenly a hand gripped his hand and another wrapped around his mouth. Before he could act, he suddenly felt cool air on his face and rushing all around him. At last his feet touched the ground and then there was another rush of wind, then again and the figure was standing before him again.

"While I admire your vigilance," a familiar voice said. "You don't have to do that. Your little knife would never have harmed me."

"Serana," Eirik hissed. "I thought you would meet us at the stables."

"I've been walking the streets," Serana said. "Looking for trouble."

"Be careful who hears you say that," Eirik whispered. "One might catch on to what you really are."

"And what could they do?" Serana sneered in a jesting manner. "Come now, to the stables."

"Why?" Eirik began, but felt her strong hands wrap around his mouth.

"I'll tell you once we're there," she whispered.

In a swift movement through the cold, night air, Eirik found himself now in the stables, among the straw and reek of the horses. She removed her hand from off his mouth, then a candle was light: a true candle, lit with fire. Serana held up the candle, illuminating both of them.

"We might not be safe even here," she said. "There are so many eyes and ears in Riften, but this is the safest place I could find."

"Right," Eirik said. "Now, will you please tell me why you dragged me out of my bed in the middle of the night?"

"I made a hunch, and my hunch was right," she said with a smile.

"And what was your hunch?"

"That you couldn't sleep," she said. "Obviously I don't sleep, so I was in need of someone to talk to, and since I'm wanted by my clan, your sleeplessness is my best option."

"I was thinking about our meeting with Crixus last night," Eirik said.

"I know," she replied. "I was watching the whole thing from the shadows. Aside from the measure of animosity I detected from you two, I gathered that something was going on with that Redguard and his pirate crew. Perhaps we should consider pursuing that?"

"We need to get to Dragon Bridge," Eirik said. "Crixus told me that was where the Moth priest was heard, but he also said that the Penitus Oculatus have a heavy presence there."

"Who?"

"The Empire's security force," Eirik replied.

"Which is bad, right?" she asked.

"Very," Eirik said. "Even Crixus feared to cross them, I could tell from his voice. Nevertheless, there we must go. Perhaps his friend Rayya can help us."

"So we're taking on another member to our company?" Serana asked.

"Perhaps not for long," Eirik mused. "Though..."

"What?"

"Crixus gave me something else," Eirik said. He then removed the cloth he had been given from his bosom. "After last night, Crixus stopped by our room and told me to keep this on my person. He said it was very important."

"What is it?" Serana asked.

Eirik unrolled the cloth and found within it a letter sealed with an unmarked seal. He broke the seal and unfurled a letter with an attachment of golden-brown parchment that looked as though it had barely survived a fire.

_To Eirik, surnamed the Dragonborn_

_I hope this letter finds you. I trusted that Crixus can keep secrets, even against his own Guild members. I know not where to turn and you are the only one I can trust. Though you do not know me, I have heard of you from the gossip that falls at my family's table. While I never believed myself to be one for legends and fantasies, I have called you in the hopes that you will aid the city of Riften. For too long I have been idle while my family has abused the people of this town, and now, with the Jarl in exile, there is no other choice. You must see the contents of this letter safely delivered to Elisif the Fair in Solitude. I pray that Boethiah see this mission through safely and that the future High Queen will see fit to intercede for her people where the Jarl and my mother have not._

_Sincerely, I.B-B._

_PS - If my name has given you cause to doubt my words, I will understand. I ask that you consider not who my parents are, but that you consider the plight of the people of Riften, whose cries even I can no longer ignore in good conscience._

"What is in the letter?" Serana asked, gingerly reaching out to the burned attachment, which flaked as she touched its fragile leaf. Speaking softly, she began to read what was written on the letter.

"_To Astrid,_" Serana began. "Most of the above is burned off up until..._est wishes. Have secured your Listener, will send him to you for further instructions. I will make sure that the next one chosen to lead the Empire is...iable to my desires, as lately, Mede has been..._looks like 'unfriendly', but most of it's burned away. The last line says _...at the wedding in Solitude. __Sithis willing, he will escape the encounter unscathed. He has been a great asset and his..._demise? _Would surely be a serious blow to both of us._

_"Sincerely, Maven Black-Briar._

_"PS - Burn this letter upon receiving it. My hands must not be seen in this, as I have friends in high places who would not be._..I can't read the rest of this. It's mostly burned off...oh wait, here's something. _He must not know that he is doing this, or his loyalty will surely waver._"

"Did I hear that right?" Eirik asked. "They're going to attempt to kill the Emperor?"

"But why should you care?" Serana asked. "Aren't you in some kind of rebellion against the Empire?"

"Well, yes," Eirik said. "But even so, with the Emperor dead, the Empire will be in disarray. The Thalmor might take advantage of the chaos and attack again, and with the civil war still raging, it won't go well for anyone."

"What do you think we should do?" Serana asked.

"Me?" he replied. "You're the eldest, you tell me."

"I say we go after the Moth priest," Serana said. "But as it turns out, Dragon Bridge will be hard to break into." She nodded. "Yes, I was listening last night. I think I could definitely take down any army of Penitus Oculati that might come our way. Still, that would probably have the Empire send their whole army after me. As I'm sure you've seen in the crypt, while we are immortal, we are not invincible." She sighed.

"What?" Eirik asked.

"Nothing," she said, standing up and placing the candle up on a high place, away from the straw and hay within the stables. Eirik followed after her, taking the letter and its attachment in his left hand.

"Come on, tell me," he said. "Maybe I could help."

"Oh, why do you care?" she asked. "You're with the Dawnguard, you probably wouldn't care either way."

"Care about what?"

"About what happens to my...kind, after we're through here," she said.

"What?"

"Even if we find the Moth priest and learn how to read the Elder Scroll and-and stop my father," Serana began. "What then? Your Dawnguard will still be at large, and your precious Isran won't take kindly to me once the Volkihar clan is destroyed. And what about me? Where do I fit in to all of this?"

"You could settle down," Eirik suggested.

"Fuck you," she retorted.

"Is it that awful?" Eirik asked, but then knew that it was wrong when he felt her cold, iron-strong hands around his throat.

"You have no idea how awful it is!" she said, then released her grip and continued pacing about.

"I think I have an idea," Eirik said.

"No, you don't," she retorted. "You don't know what it's like, being what I am."

"A vampire?" he asked.

"A daughter of Coldharbor," she began, her voice hesitant. "A pure-blood vampire." She swallowed, then wiped her brow before speaking again. "Do you remember what happened when you met my father, and he mentioned Lamae Beolfag?" Eirik nodded quietly. "I take it you don't know the story. She was one of the Nedic people, the natives humans who lived in Cyrodiil prior to the coming of Ysgramor and the Atmorans. As the story goes, one night the daedric prince Molag Bal took her. Molag Bal is the lord of corruption, of slavery, of domination and rape. He had his way with Lamae and left her to die. She _did_ die, but that was not the end. She became the first pure-blood vampire." Eirik saw, as the dark dusk turned from black to blue, that Serana's hands were shaking. Noticing this, she held them firmly together as she continued to speak.

"I was pledged to undertake the Rite of Lamae upon my eighteenth birthday. My mother had taken it when I was very young and told me that it was...an _honor_ and a privilege. I..." She shook her head. "No, I won't speak of it, not even to you."

"Why?" he asked.

"It's something I'd rather not live through again," Serana said firmly. "It was the first time I was inside a temple, and the last time as well. After that, I became what I am. It was...humiliating, to the say the very least, and I will say no more on it."

"As you wish," he said.

"Still, while we have so little to go on," she continued. "I have often wondered what would become of me after my father has been stopped?"

"Is that what you have been doing this night?" Eirik asked. "Prowling the streets of Riften and pondering your future?"

"Yes, that's right," Serana replied. "But to where my thoughts will lead, I'm not sure. But for now, we will go in search of the Moth priest." She was silent for a while, then placed a hand on Eirik's shoulder. "You should go back inside and awake your friends. I'll make sure the horses are ready."

"Is it time already?" Eirik asked.

"Dawn won't be far off," she said. "Besides, I have some hunting to do, and you don't want to be around when I catch them."

Eirik made his way through the streets of Riften and towards the Bee and Barb. But as he was walking, however, he saw several figures lurking in the shadows around the inn. He swiftly made his way back into the inn and ran upstairs to their room, where he knocked on the door loudly. The first one to answer was Lydia, whose eyes were still heavy with sleep but seemed at least more alert than Mjoll, who was still buried in her bed.

"We have to leave, now," Eirik said. "Get everything ready, I think we're being watched."

"Think, in this town?" Lydia asked. "I've been here only twice and already I know that I don't like it. I'd hate to _live_ here, especially under Imperial rule."

"Wake up, Mjoll," Eirik said, trying to rouse his wife. She moaned in her sleep but said nothing. He shook her awake, but she moved about and groaned again.

"We have to leave," he repeated.

"Here, let me try," Lydia said, as she reached for the bowl of water which stood on the night-stand opposite the bed. This was filled with the water from which they had washed their faces, into which they had combed out the dirt from their hair, or beards in the case of Eirik, drank and then spit into it as well as clear the contents of their noses into it.

"No, wait..." Eirik interjected.

But Lydia had already dumped the contents on Mjoll's face. With a loud exclamation, she leaped up and turned to Eirik with a look of anger in her amber eyes.

"By Ysmir, you'll pay for that!" she exclaimed.

"It was her," Eirik said, pointing to Lydia.

"Acting on _your_ orders, no doubt."

"We needed to get going," Lydia said. "So I improvised. He's not at fault here."

"Punish her," Mjoll insisted.

"Later," Eirik said. "We need to get going."

Lydia had already begun gathering their things while Eirik was trying to hand Mjoll her armor as swift as he could with only his left hand. Nevertheless, she was not fully helpless and put her own armor on without his help. At last, she seized Grimsever and they ran down the stairs, waking up nearly everyone in the inn with the noise they made running down the stairs and clanking in their armor. But there was nothing for it, if they were being watched, stealth would serve them little purpose now.

As they passed outside, they saw, as Eirik had rightly guessed, figures approaching them in the steadily growing light of the new day. One of the faces, belonging to a Nord with short, dark hair had one whitened eye.

"Didn't I tell you, milk-drinker?" the voice asked in a threatening tone. "Don't cause trouble in Riften if you want to live? Now you've stuck your neck out too far. What do you say, brother?"

"I say we send 'im off like we should have done months ago," another familiar voice threatened.

"They have us surrounded," Lydia whispered.

"Not while I'm here," Eirik said. "_Yol!_"

Fire exploded in front of Maul and Dirge, sending them both and those around them scattering. Lydia and Mjoll ran left, towards the swiftest path that would take them to the gates. Daggers and knives caught against Lydia's shield and none would dare stand against the wide berth created by Mjoll swinging about Grimsever. Behind them ran Eirik, his shield strapped to his left arm and looking for an opening for the gates. At last, as Lydia beat down the blond Nord with the wicked-looking face, Eirik cried out.

"Come now, the way is clear!" he shouted.

With Lydia at his side and Mjoll bringing up the rear, keeping the thieves off with Grimsever, Eirik ran towards the gate, eager to be free of Riften and soon on his way back home. On they ran, over the creaking planks that served as Riften's street, until at last he found solid ground beneath his feet. But Lydia was coming to a halt, for before them they saw a contingency of Imperial guards gathered at the gate, their weapons drawn and aimed at them.

"Halt in the name of the Emperor!" one captain shouted.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted.

The Imperial lines broke like a field of wheat before the scythe. Lydia was the first one to run through, as Eirik looked back and saw Mjoll was giving ground, realizing that the window of escape was narrowing. She was now at Eirik's side, standing toe to toe, shoulder by shoulder, as the Thieves Guild and the Imperial Legion gathered around them.

"Go, before they regroup!" Eirik ordered.

"I won't leave you, my love!" she retorted.

"You must!" he insisted.

"No!" she returned. "We do this together!"

In that moment, Eirik seized Mjoll and threw her as hard as he could, though his right hand felt as though the wound had torn open. She was clad in armor and his right hand wasn't strong, but she had fallen hard upon the lines of Imperials that were starting to reform. She was up before they could attack and fending them off with her large sword as she gave a look to Eirik.

"Go!" he shouted.

But suddenly there was a flash of movement and an Imperial soldier fell dead, his helmet pouring blood down on the ground. Iron-cold hands seized Eirik and he found himself flying through the air and falling next to Mjoll. As they were arriving, suddenly they heard two horses neighing and saw the stallion and the mare brought up from the stables.

"Hurry up now!" Serana cried out. "We don't have all day!"

Eirik pulled himself painfully onto the back of his mare, while Mjoll jumped on next to him. Looking around, he saw the stallion on which Lydia had ridden was suddenly mounted by Serana, who was clinging to Lydia's back. He kicked the horse in the flanks and held on for dear life as it took off in a powerful gallop. Eirik wrapped the reins around his right wrist while he held his left hand, shield still on his arm, around Mjoll behind him. They still had to pass the northern watchtowers of Riften and the chance of being shot at by Imperial archers was a definite risk.

* * *

**(AN: I'm sorry if I made Serana a bit serious, but I honestly feel that she's too cool with, well, what happens at the end of _Dawnguard_. I'll try to throw in some more of her "canon" character traits, but that will take even longer as I would have to get to watching those walkthroughs again, since Bethesda hates PS3 and therefore the PS3 version of _Skyrim_ has more bugs and glitches than glitch music played by the cast of _A Bug's Life_.)**

**(The thing about the water, yeah, Norse people actually did that. That's from Ibn Fadlan's account of his journeys with the Rus, which was later made into a book by Michael Crichton and then a movie called _The 13th Warrior_. Vladimir Kulich, who plays Ulfric Stormcloak, plays Beowulf in that movie. Now I rant about Ulfric because I'm getting sick and tired of people likening him to Hitler. Honestly, Hitler wouldn't even let the Dunmer and Argonians live in Windhelm, he would have killed them all already. If anyone's to be likened to the Nazis, it's those damn Thalmor. They sent an emissary to the Emperor, saying disband the Blades and ban Talos worship, and then showed him the heads of all the Blades members they had already killed and are all "oops, look at that, you're at war", get their asses handed to them, and then have the balls to dictate the terms of the treaty and enact those terms like a kind of Elvish gestapo...which the Empire turns a blind eye to, of course, even when they terrorize their own people [Skyrim isn't an independent country unless Ulfric wins, so technically it is still part of the Empire and yet the Imperials don't seem to care that their people are being harassed].)**

**(Lol, I've had a lot of long chapters, I felt that I needed a short one, as well as one that allowed for the progression of the anti-Thieves Guild quest. I have added a few 'semi' main quests into the story, to make up for the fact that a] the Civil War won't be won but we still need an emotionally satisfying end to that conflict, as far as this story goes and b] that the main game seems to have a boner for the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood [like a lot of you do, yet you call the kettle black when it comes to Ulfric and the Stormcloaks, lol])**


	62. Homecoming

**(AN: I guess I'm doing a poor job at this story because I still have to convince everyone to go along with the direction I'm taking this story. And in what context are there non-Nords born and/or raised in Skyrim who support the Nords? Obviously the Bretons would either side outright with the Empire or the Forsworn, and Imperials siding against the Empire? I mean, why would they have to side with Stormcloaks over anything other than Talos? And Dunmer plotting to overthrow Skyrim and take Windhelm as their own, I guess Ulfric wrote _Dunmer of Skyrim_ too, his pen-name must be Athal Sarys. Honestly, you don't write a book about how you're going to take over Skyrim from those who inhabit it and then expect no response. This is Skyrim, not America!)  
**

**(Sorry for waxing political, I swore I wouldn't, but yeah, I saw this video criticizing Greedo shooting first in _A New Hope_ and it explained how George Lucas, now an established name and very wealthy in the 90s, turned Han from a self-sufficient outlaw into one who waits for an armed man with murderous intent to shoot first before retaliating and compared that to our current cultural feelings. Yeah, I can see that as well. As I said before, in medieval times, they wouldn't have cared if you were black, white or gray, if you attacked them, they'd attack you back. And if we're going to pull "race" here, the only reason Ulfric is racist is because he's white and trying to get all the non-white people out of his land. If it were a Redguard or any Elvish race, EVERYONE would be on their side. So it's selective racism, then?)**

**(Sorry, _le fou_, but I can't give anything away yet concerning Crixus and the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. The canon does state that Maven has the Dark Brotherhood in her pocket - along with everyone else in Skyrim and Cyrodiil, it seems - but I will give reasons for this later, if I so choose [after all, this is Eirik's story. Crixus will have his own story once I reach 100 chapters, or a good end point, lol]. Lastly, this much I can give away: in this story, there are Septim cults in Cyrodiil which rose up after Martin's death in _Oblivion_. Their ulterior motives, I can't talk about yet because that would go through in Crixus' story, but suffice to say that he learned that Shout in their numbers.)**

* * *

**Homecoming**

The two horses fled as far from the watchtowers of Riften. At the head, Lydia sat in the saddle with Serana hanging on behind, wrapping her arms around Lydia's waist and trying not to crush her by squeezing too hard. Behind them galloped Eirik and Mjoll on his horse. Mjoll had taken the shield from Eirik and now had it strapped to her back while she had her own strong arms wrapped around Eirik's mid-section. They had not stopped since they broke out of Riften and would not stop until they reached the border of Eastmarch. Though Eirik guessed that the Thieves Guild might be able to follow them even into Stormcloak-controlled territories.

When they had, at last, reached the marshy fen-land of the southern borders of the Eastmarch, they were all tired. None of them more tired, however, than Serana. Though she had somehow managed to pull her hood down over her head, she still moved restlessly behind Lydia. Thus they rode for at least four hours, sometimes on horse and sometimes leading their horses through the marshes in the hopes of losing the pursuit. At last they arrived at the abandoned Valtheim Towers, the final border between Eastmarch and the hold of Whiterun.. Here Lydia called for a halt, then turned her horse around towards Eirik's and spoke up.

"We need to stop, now," she said.

"Why?" Mjoll spoke up from behind Eirik's shoulder. "We've made good time, if we hurry, we might be able to reach Riverwood before dark."

"I can't ride with Serana!" Lydia complained.

"Well, it's not any easier for me," Serana added. "Having to hold on to you like some kind of glass chalice that could break with the slightest application of pressure. And by the way, you have nowhere to speak, huscarl!"

"What do you mean by that, vampire?" Lydia retorted.

"You're a servant," Serana said. "You're not supposed to begrudge the burdens your master has given you."

"I am a warrior, not a carriage for spoiled vampire princesses!" Lydia shouted. "And you are not my master!"

"That's enough, both of you!" Eirik said. He then looked behind and then up at the sky, which was overcast with clouds and threatening rain upon the holds. "We've made good time, Mjoll, that's true. But even so, we couldn't hope to reach Riverwood before the storm breaks upon us. We'll rest here until the storm abates."

One by one they dismounted and brought the horses into the bottom section of the southern tower. There was not much room, but Mjoll insisted that they not leave the horses out in the rain, so Eirik looked for a place to tie them up. There didn't seem to be any posts around, at least on this side, and any chain or ropes there might have been were long since stolen. To that end, Serana and Eirik scoured the towers for heavy barrels and stacked them in the corner next to the stairway on the southern tower. They were not exactly as sturdy as a post and hitch and, should the horses be spooked, they would most likely run off. But the only other option would be to sit here in the cold, drafty tower and hold the horses' reins. To make sure that no one came around, they shut the door of the tower and sealed it as best they could. It wouldn't hold against a determined assault. Serana assured them, however, that she would sense if someone were attacking and strike them first.

"I can smell when a living being approaches," she said.

Having done the best they could to secure the bottom level, they ascended the stairs and came to what had once been a living portion for the bandits. Inside there was a large cauldron which sat over a fire-pit built in a large iron bowl. The floors were wooden which would not have served for a proper fire-pit, therefore they assumed that the previous owners improvised when it came to heat and food. For the present heat was all they needed and they stoked the fire in silence. The recent outburst between Lydia and Serana seemed to have dampened their spirits ere the storm broke out upon them. After a few minutes of silence, Eirik removed his traveling sack, which he had brought with him from Whiterun, and decided to prepare something to eat.

"Even with this delay," Mjoll said, after agreeing to the offer of food. "We should at least be in Falkreath by tomorrow, if the rain doesn't last all night."

"Hopefully," Eirik said with a hint of wistfulness in his voice.

"You know," Lydia spoke up. "In all the time we've been together, all three of us, you've never mentioned Falkreath. Although I do remember you saying that when we were in Ustengrav."

"That's right," Mjoll added.

"I don't feel right about discussing my past," Eirik dismissed.

"Yet you always ask us about ours," Serana added. "Come on, tell us a little about yourself."

"To what end?"

"I want to know more about my husband," Mjoll said.

"I want to know more about my thane, the Dragonborn of legend," Lydia added.

"For fun," Serana said with a cheeky grin.

Eirik sighed, pushed at the fire with a stick, then began to weave the tapestry of his life's story.

"I was born in Falkreath, on the first day of Morning Star, on the 171th year of the Fourth Era." he said.

"The year the war began?" Lydia asked.

"Aye, the year the war began," Eirik repeated. "I was born when my father was away, fighting the Dominion in Cyrodiil: he came back a broken man. He didn't survive long, but he tried to teach me everything he knew about forestry, about hard work, about honor and about a Nord's duty to his country. When he died, we buried him in the Falkreath graveyard, my mother and I: I was only seven at the time. For the next eight years I worked to put food on the table, provide for my mother. But she wouldn't let me shoulder the burden all on my own, even though I did my best to do so without complaint. When I was fifteen, I was out working in the woods, cutting down trees. Around lunch-time, she wasn't at the house. I didn't think anything about it until I came across her body lying in the woods south of town: her dress was torn and her throat had been cut."

"I'm so sorry," Mjoll said, offering her hand in condolence.

"I don't need pity," Eirik retorted. "It was a long time ago. I killed the Nords who did it and their accomplice, the matter is done."

"No, but I understand," Mjoll added. "When I was very young, bandits attacked my village. My brother tried to fight them off, but they...they killed him. I can still see that blue-eyed, straw-bearded bastard smiling and laughing with glee as he turned his sword in my brother's heart."

"So that's why you hate thieves and bandits so much," Lydia added.

"Yes, that's why," Mjoll sighed. "They care about nothing but themselves." She blinked, brushed her hand over her face, then turned back to Eirik. "Please, do go on."

"After she died, there wasn't much cause to continue living in Falkreath," he continued. "I had no brothers and woodsmen live lonely lives. Thankfully for me, someone had seen my skill with an ax when I slew those bandits who assaulted my mother. He told me about the rumors that were going on in Windhelm, about an insurrection against the Empire and the White-Gold Concordant."

"Wait a minute," Lydia interjected. "I thought the war began ten months ago, with the death of High King Torygg on the 9th day of Fredas."

"The war might have begun then," Eirik said. "But the whispers of war were long spoken before then. Dissent was rising, even so much that a lonely woodsman could hear of Ulfric and the White-Gold Concordant in a back-water place like Falkreath." He scoffed. "I wanted to run to Windhelm and swear my allegiance to Ulfric, but the one who saw me kill those bandits, he told me that a true warrior was learned in all the arts, not merely how to swing a blade. He asked me if I could read, write, or knew anything about Talos or why the war was being fought. I told him no or regurgitated what I had heard in the streets of Falkreath." Eirik chuckled. "It was then that he gave me an offer."

"What was that?" Lydia asked.

"To go to Bruma with him," Eirik replied. "He said that he was a vassal of Ulfric, who was sent to Bruma on business important for Skyrim, though I didn't understand what he meant. He told me that if I went with him, I would learn how to be a true warrior and bring my ancestors great honor through my deeds."

"And you just went along with that?" Serana asked.

"I felt humiliated when he made notice of my inability to read or write," Eirik said. "In that moment, that was when it began."

"When what began?" Mjoll asked.

"When I became aware of who I was, of what I was, and what that meant to the world," Eirik replied. "I didn't come upon the full awareness of that fact until I was living in Bruma as the page of this old man, Sven Stone-Fist. Even the Nords of Bruma were not like the people I knew in Skyrim. They looked down upon us as ignorant savages, yet they themselves, for all their sophistication, were considered ignorant savages by the native Cyrodilians. So I devoted myself wholly to my studies, as much as I could, and so learned how to read and write and learned a few spells from a former member of the Mages Guild. I was still second-class, but I soon discovered the true purpose for why we had come here."

"Why is that?" Serana, Mjoll and Lydia asked as one, each of them with looks of wrapped attention on their faces.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he replied.

"Oh, come, now!" Serana exclaimed. "You were being so open with us! You can't clam up now!"

"This reminds me of the time I almost walked into Black Marsh," Mjoll began, stroking her chin pensively.

"Not again!" Lydia groaned.

"Honestly, Mjoll, you really need to cut down on your talking," Serana added.

"I was sharing a relevant event of my life!" Mjoll said in her own defense.

"Like when Eirik was talking about his murdered, possibly raped, mother and you just _had_ to butt in with your story about your brother?" Serana asked. "Do you have no tact or can you honestly not stand not to be part of every conversation?"

"It's nothing like that!" Mjoll retorted hurtfully.

"Then what is it like?" Lydia asked.

Mjoll once again buried her face in her hands and sighed. The others looked on her for a while, hoping that she would make some kind of response. For one infinitesimal moment, it seemed as though Mjoll would not make any reply at all. With a groan of frustration, she removed her hands from over her face at last.

"My brother, he and I were very close," she began. "His death was especially painful for me. When my mother and father died, I went on my journeys in solitude. I hated the solitude and was very glad to have Aerin when he found me and brought me to Riften."

"I'm sorry," Eirik consoled, placing his hand upon her shoulder. She said nothing, but leaned her head against his hand and closed her eyes.

"We shouldn't have pressed the matter," Lydia said grimly.

"I still don't get it," Serana spoke up. At this, Lydia punched Serana's arm. The vampire hissed, and looked as though she would strike back, but Eirik shook his head. She shrugged, then barred her teeth at Lydia.

"Let's eat, shall we?" Eirik asked.

* * *

Eirik found out that he had packed rather lightly as far as food stuffs went. There were a few coneys they had hunted and some potatoes and a few sprigs of lavender, but hardly enough for a feast. Surely not one for four people, who had come a long way today in haste with no breakfast. Lydia began skinning the coneys while Serana said that she would return shortly and disappeared. Once they had successfully gotten a fire crackling in the pit, Lydia asked Mjoll to fetch water.

"Do I look like a servant?" she retorted.

"I can't ask him to do it," Lydia said, gesturing to Eirik. "Two hands are better than one." At this, Eirik's countenance fell and he seemed for a while grim and sullen. Mjoll at last conceded and went on her way, leaving Eirik and the huscarl sitting around the fire-pit, the one concentrating on the pot while the other sunken into his depression.

"Now what's your problem, my thane?" Lydia asked, looking up from the kettle for a moment.

"You know what," Eirik said, holding up his right hand.

"Maybe now you'll know how I felt when you left me behind in Whiterun," Lydia reminded him.

"Serana is right, you've been far too insolent," Eirik stated.

"Maybe you can make the food all on your own, then," Lydia suggested. "Or defend yourself with one hand." For a moment there was great unease between the two of them, which was suddenly broken by Lydia laughing. "I only do so in jest. You're so serious all the time, I'm surprised you don't die of depression."

"That's ridiculous," Eirik said, shaking his head.

Mjoll was the first to return, bearing one of their skins which she had filled with water from the White River nearby. Once the water was in the kettle, Lydia began to prepare the stew and they all kept their eyes out for Serana. She did not return until the rain finally broke upon them and they were hiding beneath old, rotting planks which served as the highest level of the tower, yet still dripped water on their heads and onto the fire, sending up small columns of smoke. Thankfully, the bandits had left several wooden bowls about, into which Lydia poured their stew.

"And where did you run off to?" Mjoll asked Serana.

"I had to eat," Serana said. "I'm sure none of you wanted to see me drag a corpse back here, my mouth dripping with blood like some ravenous wolf."

"Aye," Mjoll sighed.

"I'm glad I found what I needed when I did," Serana added, looking up at the stormy sky above. "Obviously I'm no fan of the sun, but anything would be better than this."

"Never satisfied, are you?" Lydia asked.

"Maybe I'm not," Serana said vaguely.

"By all the gods, can we not have peace?" Eirik groaned.

"Why?" Lydia asked. "I thought you enjoyed our banter."

"I thought I did as well," he said. "But now it's nothing more than b*tching every two seconds, no offense meant."

No one responded, and they concluded their meal in silence. As the rain continued to fall and the night was swiftly passing upon the land, they decided that they would retire for the night. Lydia fell asleep almost immediately, as they had no beer or mead for her to drink from endlessly. Serana, who needed no sleep, chose to keep watch on the horses as well as guard the tower entrances from those who might attack in the night. So it was that Eirik and Mjoll were seated in the tower, watching the fire in the pit slowly die down. Eirik's head rested in Mjoll's lap, and she ran her fingers through the long, dark locks of his head.

"We shall be in Falkreath by tomorrow evening," she said. "Tell me, love, how will you feel when you see once again the place of your ancestry?"

"I'm not sure," Eirik replied. "I've lived in Bruma for so long, I fear I may have forgotten what Falkreath is like." He craned his head, looking up at her. "What about you?"

"What about me?" she asked.

"You're not from Riften, yet you're a Nord," Eirik began. "Where in Skyrim were you from?"

At this, Mjoll sighed. "When I came back to Skyrim, I went in search of my village. What I found was a burned wreck: everyone I knew was dead or had fled to where I know not."

"I'm sorry," Eirik replied.

"It's nothing," she stated. "I may be a woman with no family, but I have their memories which will always stay fresh in my mind. And now, gods be praised, I have a family to call my own."

"Which is that?"

"This one, my love," she said, leaning down and kissing his forehead. He reached up and caressed her cheek, just mere inches away from where her stripe of war-paint ended on the left-side of her face.

"You know," Eirik chuckled. "We never had the privilege of enjoying our wedding night."

"Not now, love," Mjoll protested.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I don't feel comfortable about...that," she said, looking at the snoring form of Lydia. "Not with the others around."

"Lydia's my servant," Eirik stated. "She won't mind."

"It's Serana I'm concerned about," Mjoll said. "She's, well, she's undead. I've always been disgusted by the idea of undeath or any kind of dark sorcery."

"She won't hurt either of us," Eirik assured her.

"Nevertheless," Mjoll added. "I don't feel comfortable doing that around other people, men or women...living or dead."

Eirik groaned. "If you insist."

"Sleep now, love," she whispered, leaning over to speak closer to his ear. "We have a long day ahead of us."

They kissed, and Mjoll then stretched herself out upon Eirik's bed-roll and went fast to sleep. But sleep was far from Eirik's body, for he was even more restless than he should be, having come a good long way on the open road. Still, by all the gods, he could not sleep, nor could he force himself to fall asleep by lying on his bed-roll, wrapped in a cloak or not. For a moment he felt like wrapping his arms around Mjoll, hoping that having his arms around her warm body would help him sleep better, but in the end decided against it.

At last, driven from the comfort of sleep by his restlessness, Eirik walked down the stairs and came to the second floor. Outside the doors which led northward, he made his way onto the bridge which connected the two towers of Valtheim and provided a means of passage over the White River. A few feet on the bridge stood Serana, like a shadow in the night, clad as she was in black, the crimson faded into the darkness which enveloped her. The wind was blowing about them, for there were few trees in this part of the river to block the wind, and yet somehow Eirik knew that, above the gentle howl of the wind and the flapping of her cloak, Serana had noted his approach.

"Can't sleep, can you?" she asked.

"Is it that obvious?" he replied.

"You're obviously worried about something," the vampire added. "I can sense your heart-beat, it's moving quicker than usual."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"I can smell blood, and sense their hearts pumping blood through the bodies of living creatures when they are nearby," Serana exclaimed. "Usually, they're rather afraid and their heart strikes up a dancer's rhythm. Yours is usually very steady and firm, but not tonight."

"I suppose I'm a bit anxious," he said.

"About returning to Falkreath?" she asked.

"Is there more I should be concerned about?" Eirik retorted, though harsher than he had intended. "After all, I _am_ the Dragonborn, savior of Skyrim, the end of all her foes, bringer of a new age and whatever else the bards and elders make up for me!"

"Look," Serana began. "I've obviously not paid much attention to your being the Dragonborn, or else I never heard the prophecy, or it wasn't made in my time, but it doesn't matter to me one way or the other what the bards or elders call you, or what you call yourself, for that matter..."

"But there's something that's been bothering you about me as well, isn't there?" Eirik commented frustratedly.

"How did you know that?" she asked.

To this, Eirik held up his right hand. "I don't have to sense anyone's heart to know what's plain and obvious. I'm useless, just as I said before." He turned over to Serana, who made no reply or comment either way.

"That's what I've been meaning to talk to you about," she began. "I'm grateful for your help so far, but you really haven't been of much help. I've had to do all the hard work and, while I don't mind it, I thought you would be of some real help to our task. You know, finding the Moth priest and stopping my father."

Eirik hung his head in shame. This was exactly what he had been dreading. The responsibility of being the Dragonborn was burden enough without the loss of the use of his right hand. Now he was useless in a fight save for his Thu'um. Without the use of his right hand, he could no longer swing a sword, he would be useless to the rebellion. For all he knew now, Serana could tell him hear and now to leave and find someone more capable. Perhaps she would cross paths with Crixus, then perhaps he would slay Harkon or, worse, choose to side with him. With Crixus as the only Dragonborn of any use to anyone, he could turn the tide of the Civil War in favor of the Empire. He might not even believe in Alduin as the World-Eater and choose to ignore him, allowing the end of the age as Paarthurnax had predicted.

"Eirik? Are you awake?" Serana asked.

"No," Eirik shook his head. "This isn't how I should be. This isn't how any Nord should be, man or woman. I know who I am, what I am, and I have no right to be ashamed of that, or to doubt that. I will not let this hand of mine make me any less than what I am."

"But you can't fight with your left hand, you've told me so yourself," Serana said. "You don't owe me anything, you don't owe anybody anything. You don't have to..."

"Don't tell me what I have to do," Eirik retorted. "I know what I have to do. One way or another, I will overcome this."

* * *

**(AN: Working eight hours a day, four days a week at a dead end restaurant job isn't fun, and it eats away at any time I may have to work on this story. That is my one excuse and it is valid. Nevertheless, I forced myself to have time to devote to this, so I hope you enjoyed it.)**

**(In the setting of _Skyrim_, I can make commentary on the characters while trying not to throw around psychological terms. How did you like my explanation for Mjoll's talkativeness? I also made a very subtle hint to something Dracula said in _Van Helsing_. I don't know, I feel like a lot of people didn't really like that movie, but I thought it was good [at least Dracula and his brides NEVER SPARKLED!], so I referenced it, as well as _The Hobbit_ movie. One thing I found really dumb about that movie [aside from how Peter Jackson destroyed the lore of the War against Angmar and set himself up for the next movies] was that, before Thorin and Co. fall into the Goblin's lair, Bilbo...tries to walk out on them...after the encounter with the Mountain Giants. Are you insane?! You're 3 feet tall, and you think you can survive against 50 feet tall giants of stone, which you just barely escaped from moments ago?!)  
**

**(Whew! Had to get that off my chest, mostly because I kept feeling, as I brainstormed this closing scene during my hours of grueling, underpaid work, that this scene was too much like that scene from _The Hobbit_. I'm not trying to rip anything off, and if I were, I'd rip off something a thousand times more awesome than that scene which was NOT in the book.)**


	63. Falkreath

**(AN: I might be able to be doing some more updating, but I just hope this all goes well, both the story and my decision.)  
**

**(I've been listening to _Bathory_ non-stop, as I've been trying to get back into the swing of writing viking-themed lyrics for my band as well as getting the proper atmosphere for this game. So this chapter is therefore brought to you by the song "The Wheel of Sun". Check it out, it's epic. Also, as far as inspiration goes, I've recently picked up Joseph Campbell's _The Hero with a Thousand Faces_ for reference both with the original story and where I'm going with it, to be sure that it applies to the mono-myth of the hero. So far everything the game creators did with _Skyrim_, and me in this story, have been to form. If anyone has any questions or concerns, once again, I ask you to please voice them.)  
**

* * *

**Falkreath**

Morning came damp and cold upon Valtheim towers. Through the night, the travelers had had a difficult time keeping dry. Not a single one of them were not soaked by either the rain or the dew that fell upon the ground in the early hours of the morning. Eirik awoke stiff and sore from sleeping in his armor, but they had all agreed to sleep armed, in case of a bandit or vampire attack. Of course, Lydia had mentioned before drifting off, there was always the off-chance that a dragon would attack. This made Eirik fearful, for none of the others could be of much use against a dragon, so he believed, and he with his one hand, still untrained as he had hoped to remedy that the other night, would be of little use either.

But when his eyes finally opened upon the early morning of Skyrim, he saw that the night had, strangely, passed by without incident. No vampires had attacked and no dragons had swooped down upon them. Whether the former was because of Serana's ceaseless watch or whether the gods were with them, he could not fully discern. Nevertheless, he was pleased to be awake now and to find them all alive and well.

They prepared in haste, eating only a little of the dried meat they had packed. Serana ate nothing, but went down to the lowest level of the towers and readied the horses for their departure. Once they were all finished, they gathered the last of their things, hurried down the steps of the tower, mounted up and left Valtheim towers, eager to be heading westward, with the morning sun to be drying them out from behind.

It took at least an hour and a half to make their way down the hill and into the plains of Whiterun, spread out before them like a sea of gold rippling in the cold autumn wind. With a cry of mirth, Eirik urged his horse onward, leading them onward into the plains with Mjoll holding onto his back. It felt good to be among the plains of Skyrim, in the free and open plains, with the wind in face and hair and gladness in heart. In that moment, Eirik forgot about his hand or about anything that was troubling his mind and heart. He laughed aloud as he galloped across the plains, going steadily south-west, towards their destination.

* * *

They arrived at the border of Falkreath Hold sometime at mid-day. The heads of the high mountains that served as the border between the holds of north-eastern Falkreath and southern Whiterun were clad in snow and ice, which glistened in the mid-day sun. As they passed on the road which passed up the long hills leading to the mist-clad forests of Falkreath, Eirik called their company to a halt. They paused in the midst of the road, while he pointed out to them the points of interest.

"There's not much within the forests," he said. "Mostly woodsmen and hunters." He pointed away south-eastward, towards the skirts of the snow-covered mountains. "Just beyond there lies Lake Ilinalta, the source of the White River." He then pointed directly before them. "An hour or so in that direction, and we'll be in the town of Falkreath."

Without another word, they urged the horses onward, galloping into the misty forests. Beneath the boughs, it was cool and damp from the mists, but the sun was more or less hidden and Serana was able to lower her hood as they passed on through the forests. For a while, there was no sound other than the clip-clop of the horses' hooves upon the stones of the road. High above the sound of an eagle crying as it winged ahead broke the silence, then all was once again still.

They traveled on in silence for the space of several minutes, with the mists parting gently before them, never showing more than at least half a bow-shot before them. In the distance, they could hear the howl of a wolf far beyond, echoing down from the high mountains. As they were passing on towards what appeared to be a fork in the road, Lydia's horse, which was taking the lead of the two of them, had come to a halt. Eirik pulled the reins of his horse, directing the mare closer towards his huscarl.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Serana," Lydia replied.

"Someone's coming," Serana said, then she lifted her head up and began to sniff the misty air. "Cyrodilic, I'd say."

"Imperials," Eirik said to the others. "Off the road!"

Eirik turned his horse left, into the trees on that side. As he turned around, he saw the tail of Lydia's horse vanish into the trees on the right side of the road. Shortly now even he could hear the sound of marching footsteps and clanging of the burnished iron and leather of the Imperial Legion. Then, from out of the mist, they appeared, clad all in silvery armor, marching down the road. Had they remained thereon, they would have met them head on with no chance of escape, were it not for Serana's keen senses. As they appeared, Eirik could see three Nords carried in chains between them. His blood boiled, for he knew for certain that these were Talos worshipers, abducted from their home for no fault other than worshiping the hero-god.

They waited until the patrol disappeared into the mists towards the north and the sound of marching boots vanished as well, before they emerged from their hiding places. Eirik's face bore a frown as he guided his horse back on to the road.

"You know we couldn't have done anything, my thane," Lydia spoke up, noticing her master's grim expression. "We're deep inside Imperial territory, there's no way we could have gotten away with it. Someone would have escaped and informed the garrison about us."

"Silence, Lydia!" he groaned in retort.

* * *

It was a grim company that made their way at last into Falkreath. While it had a history of being owned and annexed by more than a few kingdoms throughout its history, the look of the town of Falkreath was more or less Nordic. Houses of wood with thatched roofs surrounded a great stave hall in the center of town. All about the town, instead of a wall, there stood the tall trees of the forest gathered about in every direction. As the travelers approached the outskirts of the town, they saw that the trees near the northern end of Falkreath gave way to a good-sized clearing, in which were scores upon scores of tomb-stones, some of them old and weathered and others newly-planted before their mounds of upturned earth.

Here Eirik brought his horse to a halt, then dismounted as he removed the amulet from his sack and began looking around the stones in dismay. He had forgotten the details of this task and knew not at which specific grave-stone he was to place the amulet. Suddenly, he saw a priest in the golden robes approach him. He was taken aback at the sight of the priest, for he was not Nord, but one of the yellow-faced, high-forehead Aldmeri. Eirik's hand reached for the seax on his belt.

"Welcome to the Falkreath Graveyard," the old Aldmer greeted. "The Blessing of Arkay be with you."

As if to further confound him, Eirik saw something resting upon the elf's neck: the hammer-like amulet of Talos.

"My name is Runil," the Aldmer continued. "May I help you?"

Eirik cast his eyes back at the others, but saw that both Lydia and Mjoll gave his quizzical glances while Serana was hiding her face beneath her hood. He slowly turned back to the Aldmeri priest and held the amulet out before him. "I was told," he said. "To bring this amulet to the grave-yard here."

"I will see," Runil said, taking the amulet from Eirik's hand. "That it is placed where it belongs." He looked at the amulet, a sad realization in his eyes. It was strange, for Eirik had lived so long viewing the Aldmeri as tyrants who enjoyed the slaughter of brave Nords and the clever manipulation of the weaker ones, that he never would have believed seeing this kind of deep-rooted empathy in one of them.

Without saying any more words, Eirik mounted up his horse once again and galloped on into town, with Lydia's horse following after them. They pulled up into the main drag of the town, towards an inn whose sign bore two flagons frothing with mead raised as though in toast: the title was the ominous Dead Man's Drink. One by one they dismounted, handing the reins of the two horses to Serana, who had elected herself to tie the horses up while Eirik went into the inn and saw towards their lodgings.

Inside the inn, Eirik made his way towards the common room, where the proprietress, an old Cyrodilian woman, stood behind the counter. After pestering him about the latest gossip, she finally told him that there were rooms available for them, after which Eirik paid and then set about looking for the one Shaddar had mentioned.

"How do we even know this person is here?" Lydia asked. "And how do _I_ even know that Shaddar mentioned him? I don't recall anything about anyone in Falkreath."

"It was told to me while we were leaving for our rooms," Eirik said. "You were already half-way there when Shaddar approached me. He said that Crixus had told me of our problem in Dragon Bridge, and he made mention of his associate in the court of the jarl."

"Jarl?" a voice spoke up. They turned about and saw a bald old Nord man with a long white beard sitting at one of the tables they had passed. "I was Jarl once: Dengeir of Stuhn, Jarl of Falkreath!"

"Go home, Dengeir!" the old Imperial behind the bar called out. "You're drunk!"

"What if I am, huh?" he returned. "Are you going to tell that to the Imperial garrison, you tongue-wagging b*tch?!" The old man then turned to Eirik. "Don't tell anything they believe you. This place has been _crawling!_ Imperial spies behind every tree, every tomb-stone, every bush!"

"Is it safe to even speak?" Eirik asked.

"Of course it's not!" grumbled Dengeir. "But what else can they do to me? They already stripped me of my rank, made my stupid fop of a nephew Jarl in my place. Ha! At least Elisif tries to be High Queen! Siddgeir is a cunt and an imbecile. They only made him Jarl because he kisses up to those Imperial bastards! Old am I? Frail am I? Why, I can still swing a sword at any petty potentate in Skyrim who tries to dictate how people in Cyrodiil should live!" He then belched loudly, then stumbled into Eirik, placing both of his hands on Eirik's shoulders.

"Granted, I won't tow Ulfric's line either," he said. "All that talk of faith in Talos, sons of Skyrim and all of that, it's sure good enough to get people to listen to him. But not ol' Dengeir! Ha, I'm a drunk, not a fool! He'll find a way, by Shor's balls. If he finds victory in this war, he'll find a way to get the moot to make him High King of Skyrim, that's what he's after. But..." He sighed in defeat. "...might as well, eh? 'Go with the devil you know,' as the old saying goes, right?"

At this, a woman appeared, scooting herself between the drunken Dengeir and Eirik. With a condescending voice, as though an elder talking to an errant child - though Eirik could clearly see that she was much younger - she led Dengeir back to the seat and told him to sit down. Eirik noticed that the woman was a Redguard, roughly the same height as Lydia. The strangest thing was that, Redguard though she was, she was clad in Nordic steel armor, of similar fashion as the armor that he himself wore, but with a Redguard turban wrapped around her head, hiding all of her hair. It was still a strange sight to Eirik, why both Redguard women and men hid their hair beneath their wraps. True, there were some in Skyrim whom he had met who did not adhere to these customs, but this still surprised him. In Skyrim, only married women wore their hair tied up.

"Do excuse him, stranger," the Redguard said to Eirik. "He's crazy."

Eirik nodded, then turned to go on his own way, when suddenly he remembered the details of whom he had been told to meet in Falkreath.

"Are you Rayya?" he asked.

At the mention of that name, the Redguard warrior turned about, looking at Eirik with a wary expression. "What makes you think I know anybody by that name?"

"Shaddar sent me," Eirik replied.

At this, the woman scoffed. "And that name means what to me exactly?"

"You're certainly wise," Eirik said, then cast his eyes at the curved blade sitting on her belt. "And you carry a sword. Are you any good with it?"

"Perhaps," she replied vaguely. "Maybe you'd like to see me take off your hand as a demonstration?"

"No," Eirik returned.

"Good, then let me drink in peace!" she retorted, then walked off towards one of the seats.

"Crixus said you were skilled at getting into places others couldn't go," Eirik said. "But I see now that I was wrong. You couldn't possibly..."

"What was that you said?" she asked.

"That you couldn't possibly do what Crixus promised me?" Eirik asked.

The Redguard looked at the clientele, then turned back to Eirik. "Come with me." She turned about and made her way towards the door. Eirik walked after her, noticing the approach of the others behind him. He saw Lydia give him a look of appeal, with her hand upon the hilt of her sword. He nodded, and she kept her hand thereon as they followed the Redguard woman outside.

"Alright, Nord," she began. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Crixus?" Eirik asked. "I've met him."

"You lie," she replied. "_I_ have met Crixus and I know he keeps no company with filthy, ignorant barbarians."

"You just watch yourself," Eirik returned. "Woman or not, you're in Skyrim, not Hammerfell."

"Now tell me who you truly are or else..." the woman began.

But she was not able to finish her sentence. For at that moment, the sound of horses galloping down the streets of Falkreath could be heard. Into the town there appeared a detachment of Imperial soldiers on horse-back. They were well-armed, and all those who saw them pass by stepped back into the shadows or into their houses and closed the doors behind them. They came at last to the center of the street, gathering in a tight circle around which those brave or foolish enough to listen to their proclamation gathered. Eirik stepped back towards the door of the Dead Man's Drink, fearing that they had come for him.

* * *

**(AN: And in that moment, all my readers rejoiced and had their little "yay, Stormcloaks suck!" moment. No, I'm not switching gears mid-stream, the Thalmor and the Empire are still antagonists in this story, but the things which Eirik shall uncover on the road to Dragon Bridge will be important, so it had to be mentioned.)**

**(I know, how dare I take so long to depict Stormcloaks in a negative light, blah blah blah. I'm sure you all believe that any story about the events of _Skyrim_ is not fair unless it depicts the Imperials as peace-loving, superior and intellectual with the Aldmeri Dominion and the Thalmor as benevolent and helpful, while all the Nords are drunk, savage, blood-thirsty, ignorant and backwards. But that's not how this story is going to be. I mean by now I've lost all of my followers, so who cares what happens or what I say?)  
**


	64. A Night of Revelations

**(AN: I'll have to go back and re-read what I've written so far, as I'm bringing one sub-plot soon to a swift conclusion and will need to bring all those key elements together again. This happened with Rayya's introduction, which I may or may not have already mentioned in previous chapters. Oh well, in case I forget, I will explain so here. She is the consummate hero. Skilled in battle and well learned, she is the epitome of achievement of the Redguard warrior people [of course, she's also a bit arrogant, as the Redguards beat the Dominion and left the Empire, and has no magical skill: don't want to make it too easy for her]. But there is one skill which she has which will be useful: she is ambidextrous.)**

**(She's friends with Shaddar the Pirate captain and heard of Crixus by reputation. She left Hammerfell initially to prove her skill in battle by throwing herself into the many conflicts around Tamriel, one of which brought her to the pirate captain and his crew. While she was intrigued at the prospect of endless battle, she also discovered, while journeying through Skyrim, the class of huscarls and has instead opted to remain on land for the time being.)**

**(But, there is more to be shown in this chapter, so don't go away!)**

* * *

**A Night of Revelations  
**

"People of Falkreath," the captain of the Imperial cavalry group announced. "By joint edict of Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften, and His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Titus Mede II, this hold is now under martial law. It has been reported that a dangerous fugitive from Imperial law has escaped justice in Riften and is on his way to this place. We have been ordered to place the Hold of Falkreath and this town under martial law, until such time as the fugitive has been discovered. For the mean-time, the following rules are now in effect." The captain turned to his lieutenant, who unfurled a scroll and began to read from it.

"By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Titus Mede II, Emperor of Cyrodiil, Skyrim and High Rock," the lieutenant began. "The following rules are now in effect. At the sixth hour after noon by the local reckoning, all businesses and shops are to be closed and all people return to their homes. This curfew shall last all night and shall not be removed until the eighth hour of the morning by the local reckoning. The Imperial garrison legate shall also have the right to waive all appeals to the local Jarl, and shall have them present their grievances before the legate of the Imperial garrison. All people living in the Hold of Falkreath, visiting the Hold of Falkreath or leaving the Hold of Falkreath shall be subjected to a mandatory search of all items and affects.

"Lastly, it shall be known that any person found aiding known rebels, such as the Stormcloak rebellion, or any of those who affiliate themselves to said rebels, or wear their badges, such as the Bear of Windhelm or an amulet of Talos, shall be put to death by beheading."

If any objected to this, they said nothing openly. Eirik, meanwhile, had a growing fear inside him that these men had come this way for him. He could have guessed why, but the reason sounded too outrageous and unbelievable to possibly be true. Instead, he turned to Lydia, shook his head, and went back into the Dead Man's Drink.

"I can't believe it!" Mjoll exclaimed. "They have the nerve to call that blood-sucking b*tch 'Jarl of Riften'!" She looked over at the hooded figure which had been following them. "No offense, Serana."

"None taken," she replied.

"It seems we've been expected," Eirik said. "Even before we reached Dragon Bridge, already things look..."

"Dragon Bridge?" a voice spoke up. He turned about and saw the Redguard woman, still standing at his side, as she had followed them back into the tavern. "You're going to Dragon Bridge?"

"What is that to you?" Eirik retorted.

"I'm neither blind nor a fool," the Redguard said. "I can see that amulet you've tried poorly to hide within your armor. You'd be dead if you walked into the streets now."

"So, what does this mean?" Eirik asked. "Have you decided to be Rayya now?"

"Maybe," she retorted. "It seems that circumstances have brought us together."

"What do you mean?" Mjoll asked.

"I am a Redguard," she replied. "The Empire show no favoritism to the people of Hammerfell since the Empire abandoned us."

"Abandoned?" Mjoll asked. "I heard that Hammerfell ceded from the Empire of their own choosing."

"It was our choice," Rayya began. "But one we made through circumstance, as well. If you Nords think you were the only ones who were harmed by the White-Gold Concordant, think again. The Dominion wanted control over all of Tamriel, and they demanded half of Hammerfell at the start of the war, when the Thalmor ambassador brought the heads of the slaughtered Blades before the Emperor's throne. The war accomplished nothing, for though the Empire slew the Aldmeri army in Cyrodiil, the capital was sacked and the White-Gold Concordant saw the same terms of the ultimatum enforced and made law by the Empire."

"Just a moment, here," Eirik interrupted. He then walked over to the Cyrodilic woman behind the counter and ordered drinks for four, then led them to a long table at the far end of the common room. "Now, please continue."

"The treaty ordered Hammerfell cede most of our southern territory," Rayya continued. "But the warring clans, the Forebears and the Crowns, were united in their refusal of these terms. To placate his elven masters, Emperor Titus abandoned Hammerfell to the mercy of the Dominion. But we have not faltered, even so betrayed by your precious Empire, we fought on for five whole years, until those yellow bastards quit our lands all together." Eirik noticed a smile of pride on Rayya's face, as she turned then to Eirik.

"What?" he asked.

"If you Nords weren't so full of yourselves," she said. "Perhaps you would seek to ally with Hammerfell and drive the Thalmor out of Tamriel for good?"

"You seem pretty arrogant yourself," Eirik retorted.

"And rightly so," Rayya replied. "For my people drove the Dominion out of Hammerfell by our own hand, without any help from you straw-headed, pale barbarians. Or these pompous Imperials. Even now they treat my people with disdain. They would not trust me, even though I am here in service to the court of Jarl Siddgeir."

"A sucker of Imperial cocks if ever there was one!" the voice of old Dengeir shouted out from across the room.

Rayya rolled her eyes. "Despite what the old fool says, he does have a point."

"And what's that?" Eirik asked.

"Siddgeir is little more than a puppet," Rayya continued. "He was put here because he was Dengeir's nephew and would be accepted easier by the people, but most importantly because he supports the Imperial Legion." She sighed. "He's a foolish boy trapped in a man's body. All he does is feast up at his long-house and spend the septims of tax on fine clothing from Cyrodiil, Solitude and even Hammerfell."

"So where do you fit into all of this?" Lydia asked again.

"You let your servants speak in your presence?" Rayya asked.

"I am a huscarl, not a servant!" Lydia retorted. "And I'd like to see any man, Nord, Redguard or Imperial, try to keep me silent."

"That is an honorable life," Rayya admitted. "I have to admit that I have always admired the class of huscarls in Skyrim. In Hammerfell, we take great pride in our skills as fighters. The thrill and glory of battle are the paramours of every Redguard, man or woman. I had hoped to become a huscarl in the service of Siddgeir but he already has a thane and no need for huscarls."

"Who?" Eirik asked.

"His uncle," she said, pointing to the old, drunk bald man.

"But you still haven't told me of your..." Eirik continued.

"I was just about to get there," she cut him off. "As it turns out, I _am_ Rayya. I know of Crixus, I've heard of his deeds in Hammerfell. He did not leave when the Empire left and though he respects neither the Divines nor the ancestors, he is a mighty warrior and a friend of Shaddar. One of my goals while in Skyrim was to look for a crew for Shaddar's vessel, but seeing as how this hold is now under martial law, there won't be any way of getting a crew out of here. I will have to leave in secret and inform Shaddar of my failure." She turned to Eirik, with a smile on her lips.

"That is where you come in."

* * *

It was late in the day when they finally departed. Rayya had presented to them robes in the golden color of the priests of the Nine Divines. She had only four pairs of robes, but Serana insisted that she would not wear any robes. Rayya said nothing in protest, but went along with it. When at last they were - Eirik, Mjoll and Lydia - three priests standing before the tether at the entrance of the Dead Man's Drink, Rayya appeared in her robes, leading a horse so small that Eirik laughed at the sight of it.

"What?" she asked. "Have you never seen a horse before?"

"A horse!" he exclaimed. "That's a large dog, far too small to be a proper horse, much less one that could survive in Skyrim."

Rayya railed on him with a string of oaths to her ancestors and her native gods in the tongue of Hammerfell, but then brought her horse along-side theirs as they passed on towards the entrance of the town. She whispered her final instructions to them, then held her head up as they approached the arch-way which would lead them back westwards, away from the town. Two Imperial soldiers stood to block their path.

"This city is under martial law," the soldier said. "No one comes or goes."

"No, you don't understand," Rayya said. "We are priests of Dibella, the goddess of beauty and love and the arts. We have been summoned to Solitude by Lady Vici herself! We cannot afford any delay!"

"A fine story," the soldier replied. "But what business do servants of Dibella have at a wedding?"

"I know not the mind of the Lady Vici," Rayya replied. "But we cannot be allowed any more delay. Please, good sir, I know you're only doing your job, but imagine what would happen if the Lady found out about this. The Emperor's cousin!"

"Don't try to threaten me, priest!" the soldier retorted, eying Rayya suspiciously. All would have gone awry had not, at that exact moment, a fight broken out between two large, blond Nord shop-keepers and one of the Imperials who had ordered their shop closed down early out of spite. Eirik knew why, for these two, he saw, were wearing the amulets of Talos: they were supporters of the Stormcloak rebellion.

"Come!" Rayya whispered. Eirik turned back forward and saw them walking out, leading their horses with them. With his horse's reins in hand, he followed them on their way northward, towards the inevitable border of Falkreath. Here, Rayya told them after they mounted up, being well out of sight of the gate of Falkreath, security would most likely be tighter, as the Imperial garrisons of Falkreath and Whiterun were within close proximity to each other.

"That ruse might not work at the border," she added. "We will have to be more cautious."

* * *

Unfortunately, the day was coming to an end as they made their way northward. The shadows of the trees were long and the mist made all things even darker. After examining the sky for a while, both Rayya and Mjoll admitted that they would not pass the border within daylight. They paused for a moment to take council regarding their next action, pulling their horses off the road to avoid another Imperial patrol. While Mjoll and Serana were willing to spend the night in Falkreath and get an early start, Rayya insisted that they go forward through the night.

"We will have a better chance of evading the border patrols," she said. "If we leave Falkreath under cover of darkness."

"That makes sense," Lydia said.

"We've come a long way without any rest," Mjoll added. "And we have met no adversaries along the road. I fear something will soon be upon us, and as for me, I would rather not meet that in a state of road-weariness."

"I second that," Serana added.

"Do you not want to be on your way?" she asked. "On a bright, clear Skyrim morning, you could be spotted from as far as the other side of those mountains." She pointed north-eastward, towards the mountain range wherein Bleak Falls barrow was located, which served as the border between the holds of Falkreath and Whiterun as far east as Riverwood. "By night, we may be able to pass unnoticed."

"I can't go on anymore!" Serana whined. "I've been up all day in the hot, hot sun and I can't take anymore!"

"Stop whining, girl!" Rayya retorted. "Or would you like to be left behind in the dark?"

"Maybe _you_ can walk all day beneath sun and moon," Serana said. "Redguards, I'm surprised your people don't live on the sun! But some of us need to rest!"

"What exactly is your purpose?" Rayya asked, turning her horse towards Lydia's, where Serana was still clinging to the huscarl's back. "He is the blind, ignorant and over-paid thane who follows Ulfric Stormcloak, the blond is his wife and that one..." She pointed to Lydia. "...is the huscarl. But what purpose do you serve, little girl?"

"I am _not_ little!" Serana retorted. "Just wait till I get down from off this horse!"

"And do what, faint on me?" Rayya laughed. "Were you not complaining a moment ago about being weary from the road and the sun?"

"I have strength enough for this!" Serana shouted. In a swift movement, she had leaped off of Lydia's horse and tackled Rayya off her own horse and to the ground. She drew out a scimitar, but Serana's hand pinned Rayya's wrist to the ground. Her other hand reached for another one, but in a quick moment, Serana held that wrist down as well, as she now held Rayya on the ground between her knees.

"Serana!" Eirik cried out. "That's enough!"

"I've had enough of her arrogant tongue!" Serana retorted.

"We don't need any more bloodshed," Eirik said. "Not yet, at least. She's helping us cross the border, so please, let her go."

Serana made a face, then clambered off Rayya and hissed at her as she made her way back to Lydia's horse.

"I'll have you know," Rayya added. "That that is _all_ I am doing. I won't see you safely to Dragon Bridge, if you're foolish enough to take on the Penitus Oculatus." She cast a wary glance at Serana, then mounted her own horse, throwing her hood back over her head.

"Now, then," she said, turning back to Eirik. "What do you say? Shall we heed the path of wisdom and travel on through the night, though our bodies cry against it, or sleep in the woods and wait for morning to make our crossing that much more difficult?"

Eirik sighed, then, without a word, urged his horse northward. Behind him, he heard "Hyah!" first from Lydia and then from Rayya as they followed along behind. Serana said no more, but while they were riding along, Lydia pulled her horse up to Eirik's.

"Did you take a look at her sword?" she asked. "Curved blades, by Shor's bones! Curved...blades!"

"That is because curved is the superior fashion of a blade," Rayya added. "Good for cutting off heads swiftly from horse-back."

"Seems rather flimsy to me," Lydia added.

"Not at all," Rayya returned. "In fact, Redguard scimitars do not break as the blades of Cyrodiil or Skyrim, or even Morrowind and Sommerset." She pulled her horse away and continued along the path. Eirik, meanwhile, was starting to feel the same kind of animosity that Serana had felt with her arrogant comments. As he was thinking of a good retort, Lydia pulled her horse up along-side Eirik's and mouthed "_Curved swords!_" at him, which made him laugh and forget his frustration.

* * *

Evening at last fell upon the forests of Falkreath. Rayya cautioned them that they light no torches, for they would be easier to be spotted by patrols if they went with light. So it was that they dismounted, groping about as it were in the darkness, leading their horses behind them. In the dark, they heard the howling of wolves and the moaning of trolls in the hills, and without any clear knowledge of where they were, they feared that they could, at any minute, be upon them and they would be without any means of defense.

Serana, meanwhile, was hardly seeming to be weak or weary at all. Though Rayya had given her cheek for having said so earlier that day, the vampire princess ignored her, for there was an uneasy silence between the two of them. This, Eirik surmised, was mostly from Serana's sudden revelation that she was a vampire. But he said nothing, for now Serana, side by side with Rayya in their uneasy silence, led the way through the night.

"Something's wrong here," Eirik said softly.

"Your friend," Rayya said. "She is...not human."

"They don't have vampires in Hammerfell?" Serana asked.

"I've heard stories," Rayya retorted. "About blood-sucking beasts that stalk their prey in the shadows in Cyrodiil and Morrowind, but I have never seen one with my own eyes. You're far less hideous than I thought you would be." Serana hissed at that remark.

"I knew about her," Eirik said.

"Then why did you say nothing?" Rayya asked.

"The opportunity never presented itself," he replied.

"You know, you don't talk like a normal Nord," the Redguard stated.

"Meaning what?" Eirik began.

But he spoke not again. Bright lights bloomed out before their eyes, blinding them all in the glow. They staggered back and then heard the foot-steps of men in armor approaching them. Eirik feared the worst: they had been lured into a trap and were about to be slaughtered by the Empire, and Rayya would receive a handsome reward, either from the Imperial legate or Crixus.

"Halt in the name of the Emperor!" a voice demanded. "We have you completely surrounded!"

"Who is there?" Rayya asked. She then bowed her head down and whispered in Eirik's direction. "Leave the talking to me."

"Do you not know that this hold is under martial law?" the Imperial captain asked. "Lieutenant, take a detachment with you and escort these to the camp."

"Wait, please!" Rayya spoke up. "We are but simple priests, servants of Mara bound for Solitude, soon to preside over the marriage of Vittoria Vici!"

"Priests, eh?" the captain spoke up. Then there was some hushed voices and from out of the light, a figure robed in black appeared. Eirik knew that it was none other than one of the Thalmor.

"Very well, priests," the Thalmor justicar began. "I suppose your devotions to Mara have kept you oblivious to recent events. Therefore let me remind you that this country is in civil war. Not only that, but my offices in Solitude, as well as the Imperial capital in Cyrodiil received news of a very dangerous fugitive from Riften in Falkreath, which was the purpose of this interdict."

"Do you know what this fugitive was being hunted for?" Eirik asked.

The justicar scoffed. "Why should I care? He's a Nord, they're all guilty of something or other. As it so happens, I _do_ know what this person is held guilty concerning: a little matter of assault on a private citizen, the son of the Jarl of Riften."

Eirik felt Mjoll's hand in his grip tighter in anger at that title, while he was biting his tongue, trying desperately to keep from laughing. Had that bastard Hemming Black-Briar truly spent all this time, money and manpower following him over a bar-fight? Was Maven Black-Briar truly this powerful, that she could move the Empire _and_ the Thalmor to do her bidding? Part of him felt the way he did when he first arrived in Riften: not a few moments later and his sleep had been interrupted by one of her goons. That had been a very weak one - a transient hired to rough him up with the promises of gold and food - but now the Imperial Legion and the Thalmor were involved!

"Hold them here, captain," the justicar said. "There were five of them here."

"I only see four, my lord," the captain replied.

"The other one's hiding!" the Altmer replied. "Go and find her!"

Suddenly there was a loud whooshing sound, as though the wind had suddenly picked up over their heads and was blowing a storm down upon them.

"No, not this again!" Eirik groaned, his right hand still hanging useless.

There was suddenly quiet and then a loud roar, and a burst of fire broke out, sending those with the torches flying for their lives and those with the Magelight spells running after them. Cries of fear came from those who ran, while spells flew randomly into the darkness towards the fire. The others gathered around him, as the pounding of feet was heard and the beast, hidden in the darkness, was slowly drawing closer.

"To me," Eirik said to those around him. "I can't fight him off, but maybe you can."

"Us?" Lydia asked.

"I might be able to give you some help," he said, then took in a deep breath and shouted "_Yol!_"

A burst of flame poured out of his mouth, illuminating the yellow eye of a dragon not but ten feet away. Rayya cried out and Eirik heard shuffling behind him and gravel crunching.

"Slay it!" Lydia shouted. "Slay the dragon!"

"No, wait!" Eirik retorted.

"Come back here!" Mjoll added.

But Lydia was running towards the dragon. Eirik, knowing that she stood very little chance, threw himself onto her, knocking both of them down as the long neck of the dragon passed over them, striking out as if to pluck them up into its jaws and devour them.

"Give me your sword!" Eirik shouted.

"No!" Lydia retorted.

"Now!" he insisted.

"You can't wield a sword!" she added.

"Then who will kill this..." he began, but was cut off as the dragon suddenly seized him in his jaws. Only his armor kept him from any serious harm, but he could feel the iron-strong teeth bending and twisting the armor, pushing it into his flesh. He groaned as he felt like a bone being crushed in the mouth of a dog, and knew that in a few moments, it would all be over.

Suddenly, cold hands seized Eirik's shoulder, and suddenly he was in free fall. For a moment, lasting mere seconds yet seeming like an eternity, Eirik felt as though he were flying. But then he hit the ground, but found that he had not touched the ground. He was cradled in the arms of someone, the one who had rescued him from the dragon. Looking up, he saw Serana's face looking down at him.

"You really are worthless," she stated.

"Let me go!" Eirik shouted, pushing himself out of Serana's arms and falling onto the ground. As he staggered to his feet, one hand instinctively reached for his great-sword, but he felt pain as his fingers tried to encircle the hilt, and he remembered that his right hand was no longer of use.

"Mjoll!" he cried out. "Over here!"

"What is it?" she asked.

"Do you have Grimsever drawn?" he asked. "I can see nothing in this darkness."

"Aye, it is in my hands," she replied.

"Good," he said. "I need you to help me."

"What do you need?" she asked again.

"Stand still, and hold your sword forward with the blade pointing out," he said.

"It's done," she said.

"Now, where are you?" he asked, groping for her in the darkness. Suddenly there was a burst of light as the fiery breath of the dragon struck down upon the Imperial garrison. He saw where it was and he also saw where Mjoll was, and swiftly he ran towards her, seizing her in his arms from behind.

"What are you doing?" Mjoll asked.

"Trust me," Eirik replied. "Now, move towards the dragon."

"What?!" she exclaimed.

"I know what I'm doing," he repeated.

"But what if I am not invincible?" she asked. "What if I can't kill it?"

"I won't give up!" he said with gritted teeth. "I'm not useless!"

"I know you're not, love," she said. "But you don't have to throw yourself into the jaws of death again just to prove it!"

But Eirik had had enough and would wait no more. With his strong arms, he lifted Mjoll up off her feet and began waddling uneasily towards the dragon. He had no light other than the flashes of magical fire-balls being thrown at it, and the occasional burst of dragon's fire against the Thalmor mages and Imperial soldiers. The sounds were giving him some clue that he was near. But he did not slack his pace, even though Mjoll was practically kicking and shouting against him, not until he was close enough to the dragon that he could hear its breath and feel the ground shake with each step of its giant feet. Then he placed his left hand on the hilt of Grimsever, over Mjoll's hands.

"Steady now," he said. "We might only have one shot at this."

"I swear, I would strike you now if I could see you!" Mjoll said, also angrily.

"Later," he added, then inhaled and shouted: "_Wuld!_"

There was a sudden rush of cold, night wind and then a horrible tear and then Eirik was covered in hot wetness. Mjoll let out an oath and then stepped back, seizing Grimsever with both hands and trying to remove it from the dragon's open chest. But the beast was not going to go down easily. It swooped its neck down and swung at them. They were too close to be harmed by it.

"Fine," Mjoll said, spitting dragon's blood out of her mouth. "You can still fight dragons. Now where are you?"

"I have one more plan," he said.

"I hope it doesn't involve throwing me towards that dragon," Mjoll added.

"Of course not, love," he said. "I just need...Serana!"

There was a rush of wind, and then the black-clad vampire was standing at their side, palms open and bolts of lightning crackling between her fingers.

"You called me?" she asked.

"Keep that dragon busy," he said. "I think I might be able to give it a proper finishing blow."

"Whatever," Serana snickered. "Just don't take too long."

She vanished again, and suddenly there was another flash of light and a crackling of lightning as the Daughter of Coldharbor unleashed upon the dragon. Eirik, meanwhile, was watching the dragon's head in the light of Serana's spell.

"Stay close to the other side of its head," Eirik said. "I'll go around the front, try to get it's attention. Whatever happens, keep your sword held firmly in your hands and don't move!"

"Are you insane?" Mjoll asked, but it was too late. Eirik had already ran off and was now shouting up at the dragon. Whether or not it was successful, Mjoll could not immediately tell, for the dragon was now lunging after Serana. Like the dragon, she was not willing to stand there and be attacked, and she moved faster than the dragon could react.

"Serana!" Eirik cried out. "Stay put!"

"How about _you_ stay put and let that dragon eat you?" she retorted.

"This is no time for mockery!" Eirik retorted. "Stand your ground and let the dragon see you!"

Eirik saw the bright sparks and lines of lightning from where the vampire struck at the dragon, and ran towards it, planting himself on Serana's right side. The dragon loomed its head towards them, eying Serana with its yellow eyes. Eirik hoped that Mjoll had followed him and was holding her sword ready for the blow to come. In one swift move, the dragon reached out and tried to snatch Serana in its jaws. But she had moved far too swiftly and was safely away. Eirik, meanwhile, had also leaped to the side.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" he shouted.

The dragon's head was pushed to the side by the Unrelenting Force of Eirik's Thu'um, and was impaled on Grimsever with a sickening squelch. But Mjoll made no sound. Fearing that something had happened to her, he made his way through the darkness, feeling heat rising from the body of the dragon as it began to disintegrate. He feared what would happen next, but his greatest concern was Mjoll, his love. Suddenly he felt the large body of the dragon directly before him, its cold scales a few feet away from where his face. His hands reached out, feeling for the dragon's body, moving steadily down-ward, when he heard a familiar laugh.

"Well done, my dim-witted servant," the voice of Miraak spoke. "You've slain another dragon for me. I'll take this one, though."

There was nothing he could do against this shade, which moved both within the realm of sight and sound and yet was not part of it. He could not strike it, for his hands and sword moved through it as though through smoke. Had he not remembered that either, there was no way he would have been able to spot the shade of Miraak in this darkness. Suddenly he heard Serana's voice in the dark.

"Eirik!" she cried out. "Over here!"

He followed the sound of her voice and came around to the other side of the dragon's neck. Now there lay a pile of bones, which the vampire was lifting up, allowing a bruised and blood-soaked Mjoll to crawl out from under where she had drove her sword through the dragon's neck.

"I'm sorry, love," Eirik said, giving Mjoll a hand up before turning to Serana. "Well, what do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what?" she replied. "Mjoll killed the dragon."

"Well, Eirik," a voice said. He saw a torch light bobbing towards them, held aloft in Lydia's hand. Beside her was Rayya, a look of amusement on her face as she eyed the tall Nord. "I should say that this is a night of revelations indeed! First I learn why the Empire put Falkreath under martial law, then I discover your infirmity and hear you shouting in some strange language."

"I'm the Dragonborn," Eirik replied.

To this, he was shocked to discover, Rayya laughed. "Surely you jest!"

"I'm serious," he replied.

"I've heard those stories from the moment I arrived in Skyrim," Rayya laughed. "Silly superstitions, just like draugr in the old ruins or the Falmer!" She laughed once again, which made the Nords angry at how little she thought of what had almost slain them afore-time.

"It looks like you don't know all there is to know, now, doesn't it?" Lydia added.

"We have a long talk ahead of us," Eirik said. "Lots of things we need to clear out. We might as well find some place to settle down for the night."

"Settle down?" Rayya queried. "No, we have to keep moving. We won't be anywhere near settling down until we've passed Rorikstead, and even then, there's still the chance that the border guard will regroup and pursue us. I noticed Thalmor justicars in their numbers, and they won't give up easily." She laughed. "No, 'Dragonborn', we ride through the night."

* * *

**(AN: Had another name for this chapter, but changed that since I'm taking their trip to Dragon Bridge at a medium pace. Also, wondering if I should progress any farther down either _Dragonborn_ or _Dawnguard_ before Eirik takes the Elder Scroll back to Paarthurnax? One reason I want to continue the _Dawnguard_ quests, at least for a while, is because I'm tired of having Eirik be useless in battle. That will change with the _Dawnguard_ quests, as I have planned on.)**

**(What did you think of that ambush? The Imperials hid their torches and then revealed them, along with the Thalmor mages using mage-light/candlelight at the same time. Well, if it worked for Gideon, it could work for the Empire of Cyrodiil. Also, a little bit of "fanon lore", but I think that the dragon-scale/dragon-bone armor was made by the Akaviri, as I've heard [but don't remember where] that the Akaviri hunted dragons, so it would make sense that they made armor from the bodies of their slain foes. And lastly, in the first edition of_ Pocket Guide to the Empire: Skyrim_, aside from its outrageously racist overtones - from a Cyrodilian, no less! - it makes fun of the Nord's belief in the Falmer, saying that they blame almost anything on them, then goes on to list the most mundane things.)  
**


	65. The Bear of Markarth

**(AN: I've read the arguments against Serana being from the First Era, and while I respect the opinions and amount of research that went into formulating those opinions, for the fanon of this story, that will not be the case. To that end, I had to make Garan Marethi older than 400 years, and argued over whether he would have been a Chimer or Dunmer. In the end I settled on Dunmer as, for their evil, Azura cursed all the Chimer [ALL of them!] and turned them into Dunmer.)**

**(You know, someone put up all of Mjoll's dialogue on _UESP_ [Unofficial Elder Scrolls pages]. I can't thank that person enough for that boon, it's really helped me in my writing. Also, what do you think, readers? The books in the Elder Scrolls games are not very long [though I'm sure some of you would say the ones in _Morrowind_ or _Oblivion_ were appropriately longer], so do you think that all that is shown is the relevant stuff and the books are actually quite longer?)  
**

* * *

**The Bear of Markarth**

They walked on through the night until it seemed that they could move no more. When at last even Rayya could not keep them on their feet anymore, they came to rest in a place where the plain which they had been traveling terminated in small, dried out gullies. Here they would rest from the cold winds and, hopefully, anyone who tried to follow them. Mjoll, who had been cut and bruised when the dragon fell on top of her, fell asleep almost immediately once they got off their horses. Lydia and Rayya soon followed, but Eirik was too keyed up from the recent battle to be restful in any way. There was also something else which stole his sleep.

While he was thus laying on the pebble-filled turf, he saw Serana, awake as usual, tending to the horses. Careful that he not arouse Mjoll from her slumber, he rose up from where he lay next to her. She rolled about and mumbled something about Aerin and a lost ring, but did not awaken. He made his way softly to Serana, but she turned about just as he was about twenty feet away from her.

"Sneaking up on me is not a good idea," she replied. "I'm awake and alert a hundred times more at night than in the day." She then saw who it was who had approached her. "What gives? Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"

"I can't sleep," he replied.

"That's obvious," she retorted with a snicker.

"I fear what will happen," he added. "The dragon attack has reminded me just how mortal I am, especially without my right hand. But then Miraak..."

"I heard stories about him," Serana added. "Some kind of Nord priest on Solstheim who turned against the dragons, at least a thousand years or more before I was born. The stories said he vanished into the darkness and was never seen again."

"Until now," Eirik added. "I feel that he would be there, even when I face Alduin, and will steal his soul from my hands once again. It's not a comforting thought, that my destiny is to be polluted by this scum and his magicks!"

"But there's more, isn't there?" Serana asked.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Good guess?" she replied. "I'm a four thousand year old vampire Daughter of Coldharbor, not a mind-reader. Do you feel like telling me or would you rather wake your loose-tongued wife?"

"Say no more about her," he retorted harshly.

"Why not?" she chuckled. "She _does_ talk far too much."

"Can you not respect her because I am married to her?" Eirik asked.

"No, of course not," Serana replied. "If I can't have marriage, I might as well have fun at the expense of those who can."

"What do you mean you can't?" Eirik asked.

Serana was quiet for a moment, her eyes closed for a long while. At last they opened, reddish yellow in the darkness, and she spoke, not turning towards Eirik.

"It's not something I like to talk about," she began. "Suffice it to say that the experience which turned me into a vampire was...traumatic. Not many women who undergo it survive, I was one of the few along with my mother of our blood-line. To this day, I won't set foot under the roof of any temple, whether of stone or wooden staves. But there's more to it than that."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked again.

"Well, a vampire is neither living nor dead," she answered. "And, being un-living, vampires can't reproduce with other races. We can only breed new kin to succeed us, should we be slain - which is a great rarity, by the way - by giving them of our blood. So even if I wanted to go inside a temple and go through another..._painful_...ceremony, it would be for naught. I would be of no use."

"I've heard rumors about one who can cure vampirism," Eirik commented.

Serana snorted. "Like I would want to give up this power! Not to mention, eventually I would grow old and die. No, I've come to accept this 'curse' as a blessing and use it accordingly. While I've slept through the last four thousand years, I'd be sure to stay awake for the next four thousand and see all that Tamriel has to offer. Imagine all the things I could learn, never fearing for age or weakness or death."

"That does seem like a blessing," Eirik began, then suddenly a thought came to his mind. "You said you heard of Miraak. Have you, by chance, heard of Ysgramor the Mighty?"

"Who hasn't?" Serana chuckled, seeming now less stand-offish and aloof. "If it weren't for him, none of us would be here, including myself and my family."

"The Night of Tears?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Garan and Vingalmo always painted a different picture of it, though."

"I remember Vingalmo," Eirik said. "From your father's castle. But who is Garan?"

"Garan Marethi," Serana said. "A Dunmer vampire who serves my father at the castle. He's always claiming that he's the eldest living vampire, even longer than my father. He spoke of the Night of Tears as a retaliatory strike against Atmoran oppression. Among them were provocations to war made by Ysgramor, but also the discovery of something powerful beneath the city of Saarthal which he said the Snow Elves feared would be misused and blasphemed by the 'barbaric' Atmorans. He also said that, unlike the songs that have come down to us since that time, the city was not burned to the ground and the invading Elves slew very few of the citizens, sparing women, children, elderly, the infirm and those who threw down their weapons."

"No Atmoran would ever throw down their sword in surrender to an enemy," Eirik replied.

"Well, who really knows?" she asked. "I don't and it doesn't matter to me. All that matters now is stopping my father."

"But it matters to me," Eirik stated. "I...thought that I was sure of the greatness of my people and the glory of the battles of old. But it seems that this is not the case, that I have been defending a house of lies."

"I think you're wise enough to know the truth," Serana said. "But you should always be wary of what is put in words. Anyone can write anything and claim it's 'the truth', you should go out there and see the truth for yourself."

Eirik sighed, then made his way back to his bed-roll, weary and eager to once again attempt to sleep. For him, however, sleep would still be a long ways off. He watched Serana's darkened silhouette pace their camping ground, sometimes in the gullies and sometimes on the summit, looking out across the the plains of Western Whiterun, all clad in the black shadows of night. Sometimes she would disappear and he would try to look around for her, but eventually she would appear again and continue watching over them in the darkness. At last his eyes became too heavy to hold up and he drifted into slumber.

* * *

When morning came, he found the others were now awake and about. Serana was there, hooded now in the light of morning, holding the horses' reins, while Lydia sat at a camp-fire with Rayya, who was preparing food for them. Mjoll was nearby, sharpening a seax with a stone. His first reaction was surprise, for the memory of last night was still fresh and vivid.

"What is this?" he asked.

"We have a long road ahead of us," Rayya said. "We should eat something before we faint on the way to Dragon Bridge."

"I thought you weren't coming with us," Eirik said. "And what about smoke? Were we not just stopped by an Imperial border patrol last night? Now you light a fire as though we were in peace and safety!"

"It could not be helped," Rayya added. "We need to eat to keep up our strength, for we will be making no stops on the way north." She smirked. "And as for coming with you, well..." She nodded in his direction. "That should have been apparent."

"I don't understand," he replied.

"Of course you don't, you're a Nord," she stated. "You need to have everything spelled out in simple terms. Well, here is the short of it: your hand, I was aware that it was useless when I first saw you in the Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath. As I also guessed, your sword-hand is your right. Now, while Nords would be at a loss in such a condition, it would be nothing for a Redguard to overcome. We use swords as extensions of our own bodies and some of us can fight with both our right and left hands. I am one such a warrior, and I think you would want to learn how to wield a sword again."

"You have my interest," Eirik replied.

"Now eat up," Rayya added. "There's dried meat, some roast mutton, bread, cheese and water for the road." She snorted. "You Nords, dousing everything with golden mead, it's not right for a long journey on the road. Water is what you need."

Eirik did not enjoy her comments about his people, but nevertheless ate as he had been offered. The food was good and he ate well. They ate in relative silence until Mjoll, half-way through her horker stew, decided to regale them all with a story of one of her adventures.

"I remember this one time when I went to Morrowind," she said. "It's a dark and dreary place, even worse than Solstheim. The clouds from Vvardenfell cover the ash-fields of that land as far as the eye can see. Fortunately, this is nothing new to the Dunmer of that place, whose towns and buildings are made secure against such floods of ash. But the Argonians rule Morrowind now, not that there's much else left to rule."

"By the gods, not this again!" Lydia groaned.

"You've been to Morrowind?" Rayya asked.

"Since I was very young," Mjoll began. "My father and I used to hunt cliff-racers there at least three times a month."

At this, Rayya laughed so hard that she spat out the stew she had been eating. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"My father went hunting in Morrowind, after the cliff-racers," Mjoll repeated. "Sometimes I would go with him."

"Woman, there are no cliff-racers in Morrowind," Rayya said. "There haven't been any cliff-racers in Morrowind for centuries, there's no way you are thousands of years old."

"I saw them with my own eyes," Mjoll said.

"That I cannot believe either," Rayya added. "Have you ever _seen_ a cliff-racer? From the stories I've heard, there's about as large as these dragons, maybe even larger."

"Yes, my father and I were very good at hunting them," Mjoll added.

"You speak nonsense, woman," Rayya stated. "Just like a Nord."

"And you are as proud as any Redguard I've met on my travels," Mjoll added with a level of respect. "I remember when I was waylaid in Janeth..."

The others sighed, but Mjoll continued her speech until they finished eating. At last, as they were cleaning off their bowls and cups, she saw that nobody was truly listening and so fell silent. They made their way onto their horses, while Rayya stamped out the fire and then mounted her horse, joining alongside Eirik's horse.

"Once we get to Dragon Bridge, we should stay there for a while," she said.

"I thought that was exactly what we did not want to be doing?" Eirik asked.

"You need to be taught how to fight properly, and that is as good a place as any," she replied.

"Very well," he said.

* * *

They spent the rest of the day galloping on northward, towards the hold of Haafingar, and the direction of Dragon Bridge. For a while they had nothing but open plains before them and the riding was very easy. Once they passed by Rorikstead, however, the way became much more rugged and dangerous, especially for five people and three horses. The land was now suddenly rocky and craggy, and many times they had to dismount and lead their horses along a perilously narrow path through the rocks. Here Eirik hoped they would not encounter the Reachmen, also known as the Forsworn, as he had during his stay at the Sky Haven Temple in Karthspire. They were difficult, and he was not in any condition for another encounter.

The others were rather quiet, save for Mjoll and Serana. The vampire, though she was constantly complaining about how hot it was and how bright the sun was, found the land of the Reach to be rather intriguing.

"This land is so strange," she said, looking out at the crags and valleys from behind Lydia on their horse. "It feels...so twisted. I'm surprised my father didn't want to live out here. This is the perfect dwelling place for hermits, fanatics and such."

"I've heard many stories about the Reachmen," Mjoll began. "It is said that all this land of the west once belonged to them, until the Atmorans conquered Skyrim in the First Era. While it is regrettable that there cannot be peace between the Nords and the Reachmen, it is an unfortunate fact of life."

"Why is that?" Rayya asked. "The Reachmen have the right to this land, they owned it."

"Then by that right," Mjoll added. "The Elves have right to all of Tamriel, and all the races of Men would cease to exist."

"Not mine," Rayya retorted. "My people hail from Yokuda. If the Elves actually did take back Tamriel from the Empire, it is of no concern to us. We will fight them if they enter our land, as we have done since the Empire forsook us."

"The legends spoke of a great ice age befalling Atmora," Mjoll continued. "The last ship to leave there arrived in Skyrim with only half its crew alive: the rest had frozen to death. There are legends still of what awful calamity befell that place: it is said that it was frozen over in snow and ice, so much that nothing could ever survive there, not even the hardy things that call the frozen north their home."

"I've heard that as well," Serana added. "It is said that Coldharbour, the plane of Oblivion owned by Molag Bal, is desolate and fiery, cold and burning hot, yet it is exactly as Nirn is in the waking world: only a place of death and destruction."

"I heard there were expeditions made there," Lydia added. "Late in the last age. They found nothing, only ice and death in the cold. I remember Farengar talking about a story he had heard, about someone who actually went to Coldharbour and saw Atmora. He said that it was no different than the reports of those who had been there in the Third Age."

"A cruel joke by the daedric lords of Oblivion," Mjoll added. "If the Elves had their way, all our forefathers would have died in the frozen north and none of us would have been born: not Talos, not Ulfric, not Laila, Balgruuf or Elisif, nor would any of us have been born."

"Speak for yourself, Nord," Rayya chuckled.

"It is a grim fate," Eirik said. "If the Elves had their way, and we were all driven out of Tamriel and into the Sea of Ghosts, it would be a great slaughter. Thousands would die, tens of thousands even. The last deed would be worse than the first."

"So that justifies this race-war?" Rayya asked incredulously. "Nords against Elves, Reachmen against Nords?"

"It does not justify it," Mjoll said. "But as much as I hate to say it, war is the only way here. Thousands of years have passed since Ysgramor and the Night of Tears. If the Elves choose to remember that, then that is their affair. But for us, the children of Skyrim, this land is ours! Atmora is a frozen wasteland, a land of death: there is nothing there for us, or for any living race in Tamriel. We cannot go back. To kick us all out of our land, where the graves of our fore-fathers lie, where our homes have been made, where our children have grown, it would be as Eirik said: the last deed worse than the first."

"If you really think that," Rayya added. "Then you should read _The Bear of Markarth_, if you can read at all. Written by some biased Imperial scholar, nestled in his ivory tower in the Imperial City, but he speaks the truth that you would never hear from one of these pale-skinned, straw-haired, chest-beating Nords."

"You know, you're as bad as Crixus," Eirik stated.

"I will take that as a compliment," Rayya replied with a confident smile on her face.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when they saw, at the end of their travels through the rocky crags of Western Whiterun, the sign of Dragon Bridge. According to its namesake, the way they reached the town, over the Karth River, was via a massive stone bridge, over the center of which was carved the likeness of a dragon's skull. Over the bridge they galloped, coming at last to the small town which sat upon the slope of a hill. From here they could see, in the north, the Kilkreath mountains, on whose eastern end sat the city of Solitude.

When they arrived at the Four Shields tavern in Dragon Bridge, they saw quite a large number of Imperial soldiers. Most of these, however, were not mere Imperial soldiers, the run-of-the-mill soldiers, Nord, Breton or Cyrodilian, conscripted into the army and given Cyrodilic weapons. All of them were Cyrodilians, heavily armed and clad in the best Imperial armor Eirik had ever seen, added with clothing fitted for operating in the cold of Skyrim. These wore cloaks of dark red. One of the houses in the town, Eirik guessed, was their base of operations, for it bore the emblem of the Empire of Cyrodiil in red on a black field, unlike that which Eirik had seen in every other company of the Legion in Skyrim or Cyrodiil. These were the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's personal guard.

"We'll spend the night at the inn," Rayya stated. "Don't do anything that might draw attention."

Eirik was on his way off his horse when his foot slipped on the stirrup and he fell into the dirt. Laughter arose from those gathered around, while Mjoll dismounted and tried to help him up. But in that moment, he noticed that something had fallen to the earth: the blue cloak embroidered with the emblem of the Bear of Windhelm. At once, a heavily-armored Penitus Oculatus captain strode forward to meet them and came to a halt before Eirik.

"Well, what have we here?" he asked.

"Please," Mjoll interjected. "It's not what it seems."

"Is it, now?" the captain asked, plucking up the cloak. "This is the badge of a traitor. By this alone, your man should be dragged through the streets to Solitude to be beheaded."

"Oh, it's not that at all," Rayya added, walking towards where Eirik had fallen. "He's a servant of the Empire, that is merely his disguise when he goes into the Stormcloak camps..."

"Shut up, Redguard," the captain retorted, then approached Eirik and pulled him onto his feet by his hair. "So tell me, Nord, what are you doing with the effects of the rebels?"

"I'm a spy, working for the Legion," Eirik replied. "I know General Tullius in Solitude. He sent me to Windhelm to spy on Ulfric's moves. I even have this, to complete the disguise." He held up his amulet of Talos and begged that the Hero-King would understand and be merciful.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I send a detachment to Solitude, informing Governor Tullius of your arrival?" the captain asked. "He would surely be pleased to hear whatever it is you have to report."

Eirik knew that he would be found out. If Tullius did know his name, it would have been as a rebel and not as a spy. The travel, he guessed, would take at least an afternoon's walk to the gates of Solitude. He feared, however, that he would be asked to stay in the Imperial guard house and never have the chance to leave of his own before the detachment returned with the truth. From the look the captain gave, he saw that he was on thin ice and should either answer or admit to his falsehood.

"Yes," he sighed at last. "He would be very pleased."

"Good," the captain said. "You can stay with Commander Maro at our outpost. I will inform him at once."

"No, please," Eirik replied. "We have urgent business in Markarth that cannot be delayed. We only came here to stay for the night, but I fear if we stay with your garrison, it will arouse suspicion and my cover will be blown."

The captain looked upon Eirik with suspicious scrutiny, eying him up and down. For an Imperial, he was quite tall himself, even without the plume on the top of his helmet. As he was looking downwards, he saw something lying on the ground at Eirik's feet. He knelt down, keeping his eyes on Eirik, and picked up the book. It was _The Bear of Markarth_, which Crixus had given him.

"You read?" the captain laughed. "I didn't think you Nords could read."

"I was raised in Bruma," Eirik replied. "I learned to read there."

The captain scoffed, then thrust the book into Eirik's right hand. He had to bite his lip to keep from groaning or crying out in pain. He left, muttering something beneath his breath about a good book being wasted on _his_ kind of people.

They made their way into the Four Shields and Lydia ordered their room and board while the others made their way to a table at the far end of the room. Rayya practically pulled Eirik into the chair and sat down across from him, a stern expression on her face.

"Well, you've behaved foolishly and gotten us into quite a mess," she said. "Now we will have to leave tonight or you will lose your head."

"It was an accident," Mjoll replied.

"Does she speak for you?" Rayya asked Eirik.

"I don't have time for this," Eirik groaned. "I have someone to find."

In that moment, a group of Imperial soldiers entered the tavern and set their orders. Behind them trailed a little Breton child, watching them with eagerness and wrapped attention. As he followed them to where they chose to sit down, Lydia and Serana joined the others at their table.

"So, we're here now," Serana said. "Where should we start?"

"Why don't you ask around?" Eirik asked, somewhat sternly. "I'm apparently useless to you and to everyone else!"

"That's not true, love," Mjoll said.

"Don't encourage him," Rayya stated. "You're a Nord, you believe in that Sovngarde nonsense."

"It is not nonsense!" Lydia replied.

"Nevertheless, without your hand, you would not earn your place as one who falls in battle." Rayya smiled as she saw a dark expression come over Eirik's face.

"Fine, I'll ask around," Serana groaned.

"Lydia, can you help me with something?" Eirik asked.

"Anything, my thane," Lydia offered eagerly.

"Help me open this book," he said, placing _The Bear of Markarth_ upon the table.

* * *

Minutes passed by as Serana moved quietly among the people in the inn, always hiding her face beneath her hood. Rayya ate and drank on her side of the table, having not been spoken to by the three on the opposite side. Mjoll was drinking, but keeping her eyes fixed on Rayya, while Lydia was helping Eirik turn the pages of the book.

The book was a historical account of the conditions of Markarth before, during and after the War with the Dominion. It began with an account of how, with Imperial troops being marshaled to Cyrodiil to maintain the defense against the Dominion, Markarth was left relatively undefended. Then came the Reachmen who, according to the author, made a peaceful transition as they took the city without drawing blood and established a peaceful kingdom independent of both the Empire or Skyrim. A single paragraph of the third chapter was devoted to a small list of names of Nord farmers in the Reach whom the new government had had assassinated. Along with each name were a list of grievances the government had made as justification for their deaths, all of which involved them having abused or mistreated their farm-hands, all of whom were Reachmen.

Then came the fifth chapter, after the fourth one spoke of the two years of plenty during which, with the war coming to a conclusion, the Reachmen would have been recognized as a legitimate and independent kingdom. According to the author, Ulfric Stormcloak, under direct orders from Igmund, the jarl whose family had been ousted by the Reachmen, attacked the city and used the Thu'um to shout the defenders from the wall. Whereas Arrianus Arius, the author, waxed proudly and with respect at the accomplishments of the Reachmen's independent kingdom, how he described the Siege of Markarth sounded word for word as though it had come from both Rayya and Crixus.

_'Every official who worked for the Forsworn was put to the sword, even after they had surrendered. Native women were tortured to give up the names of Forsworn fighters who had fled the city or were in the hills of the Reach. Anyone who lived in the city, Forsworn and Nord alike, were executed if they had not fought with Ulfric and his men when they breached the gates. "You are with us, or you are against Skyrim" was the message on Ulfric's lips as he ordered the deaths of shopkeepers, farmers, the elderly, and any child old enough to lift a sword that had failed in the call to fight with him.'_

To Eirik's mind, these words reminded him of the murderous Snow Elves, ransacking Saarthal, killing men, women and children in their beds. But this was coming from Ulfric Stormcloak, whom he was supporting as the future High King of Skyrim. Not only women and children, but Nords as well. Suddenly words came flashing back to his mind.

_I'd love to see what your precious Nords would say in his defense._ Crixus had said thus regarding this book and how it depicted Ulfric. But Eirik had no response, no defense for what he had read. All he could have said was what he had said that day in the Bannered Mare, that the author was some Cyrodilian scholar sitting in his ivory tower, writing volumes upon volumes of defenses for everything the Empire did to accommodate the Thalmor, like Leonora Venatus, the author of _The Talos Mistake_. Like Leonora and Rayya, Crixus had a bias.

_Granted, I won't tow Ulfric's line either_, said Dengeir the old drunk in the Dead Man's Drink. _If he finds victory in this war, he'll find a way to get the moot to make him High King of Skyrim, that's what he's after._ True, he could reply that Dengeir was just an old drunk, hardly worth listening to, but he was one who had been ousted for supporting Ulfric. He at least wasn't a snob like the Battle-Born clan, always talking about how rich and powerful and influential they were and talking every other family in Whiterun or any hold in Skyrim down as though they were dirt. Here was one who hated the Empire as much as he did, and yet even he knew the truth...

"Love?" Mjoll's words stirred Eirik out of his thoughts, drifting between Crixus, Dengeir and the hate-filled faces of Dunmer he had seen creeping in the shadows and alleys of Windhelm. "Are you awake?"

"Aye," he sighed. "I'm just tired from the day's march."

"Eirik," Serana's voice spoke up.

"Yes?" he turned to her. "What is it?"

"I've been asking around," she said. "I think I have a lead on where our Moth priest went. It's south and then west. We were within a few feet of arriving there just as we got here!"

Rayya, breaking her silence at last, turned to Eirik. "Is this what you're seeking?"

"Aye," he replied.

"Then we must go now," she said. "Under the cover of darkness. We cannot risk being caught by the Penitus Oculatus."

Eirik saw that her reason was sound, and yet part of him wanted to remain at the inn. He sighed that Lydia had, apparently, spent his money on rooms they would not be using. But there was more, for he was also eager to ponder on what he had just learned. If ever he got the chance, he would present this book to Ulfric Stormcloak and ask him, with all sincerity, why he had attacked men, women and children, Reachmen and Nord alike.

Then again, there was another book which he needed to show to Ulfric when he had the chance...

* * *

**(AN: I've been building up to this reveal and here it is. He reads the book and his faith in Ulfric gets shattered. But what will he do with this new information? And what is that 'other book' which he feels he needs to show to Ulfric?)**

**(As far as the quest-line goes, I want the main quest to be like a big finale-type, but then again, if I leave it off for too long, then it doesn't feel as though Alduin's threat as the World-Eater is really that credible since, in the game, that can be postponed indefinitely [as I did, after a failed attempt at reaching Sovngarde at level 20 - Tsun, aka Heimdall, kicked my ass]. As it went in my own history of the game, I won the war first [that won't be the end of this story], then trapped Odahviing in Dragonsreach [should it still be called Dragonsreach if, like that Altmer at the Bard's College says, Olaf was a fraud?], slew Miraak [rather easily, considering how powerful he claimed to be], then Haarkon [a decent challenge], and finally Alduin. That will change in this story, based on how I feel the story should proceed as well as your input [this is where the reviews come in!])**


	66. Prophet

**(AN: That is actually a great point. Sorry I couldn't answer your other question [that would be telling, lol], but here I can shed some light on your question. In my game experience, you will get more random dragon attacks when you wear dragon-scale/-bone armor. Obviously, Eirik hasn't gotten that yet, so the issue is that he, without the use of his right hand, would be pretty useless in a dragon battle, so I've kept them away from him for a while. Obviously the dragons don't care that he can't fight back, as we saw in that last chapter, so I'll have to explain that, in the interim, some towns have been attacked and burned. One reason I don't want to do a lot of town-destroying, at least yet, is because there aren't that many expendable towns in Skyrim. Know that that will change. Also, yeah, the game creators kind of hint that only the Dragonborn can slay dragons [though your followers can do likewise])**

* * *

**Prophet**

They left the inn under cover of darkness, quietly making their way through the streets of Dragon Bridge. For them, it would be at least two bow-shots to the bridge. But in that range of at least two hundred feet, the Imperial patrols, each of them guarded by a soldier of the Penitus Oculatus. Quietly they unhitched their horses from the post outside the inn and led them south, towards the bridge. If they were spotted, no lies they might be able to conceive on the spot would save them now.

Serana, who both knew the direction in which the Moth priest had departed from Dragon Bridge and could see in the darkness, was at the front of the group with Lydia by her side. In the midst of them walked Mjoll and Eirik, with most of their gear between them. After their night of sleep in the gullies of south-western Whiterun, they had removed their priestly disguises, which were now stowed away on Eirik's horse. At the rear was Rayya, leading her horse with one hand with the other bearing one of her scimitars.

"Curved swords, my thane," Lydia whispered back.

Eirik said nothing, for their escape depended upon stealth and speed. They could be fast, Serana being the fastest of them all, but none of them were experts at stealth, save perhaps for Rayya. But there was no time for talk, as they now had to run behind the side of a building as they could hear close at hand the sound of footsteps coming towards them. As they crowded their horses behind the house, they saw the flickering glow of torches as the Imperial patrol passed by the building.

"The coast is clear," Rayya whispered, after the patrol had gone a good fifty feet away from them around the perimeter of the town.

They once again made their way onward, at last reaching the bridge. But there was a problem, one none of them had seemingly considered. Whether trotting or galloping, the horse-shoes upon the hooves of their horses would make enough noise to alert the guards. Rayya, realizing this as they approached the first stones of the bridge, removed one of the packs from Eirik's horse and began rummaging through it.

"What are you doing?" Eirik hissed.

"Looking for those robes," she replied.

"Whatever for?"

"We're going to tear them up," she explained. "Then wrap them around the hooves of our horses."

"That's a good plan," Mjoll said. "Do you think we have enough material?"

"Four robes, twelve hooves?" Rayya asked. "I think so."

Rayya removed a knife and began cutting the cloth robe down the middle. This put Eirik at great ill-ease, for the tearing of fabric made a loud noise. One, two, three, four...twelve times she dove her knife into the robes, each time Eirik feared that the patrols would be upon them in any minute. Rayya then took one of the shreds of cloth and began binding it about the hooves of her horse. Upon seeing this, the others set about doing the same. At last all three horses had their hooves bound in cloth. They clambered atop their horses and set off over the bridge. Every step Eirik feared would be their last, that he would see the flicker of torches coming their way, signaling that they had been caught.

At last, after a long and painfully nervous walk, they arrived on the southern end of the bridge. Serana took the lead once again, turning right to the south and west. But no sooner had they found this new path that Eirik saw exactly what he was dreading. Just beyond in the craggy pass that extended thither, he could see the flicker of torch-light upon the rocks. He dismounted and reached for his seax, useless in a real fight but it was all he had against whatever might be attacking. Realizing this, the others slowly drew their swords and prepared to hold their ground.

To their surprise, what they saw was a group of people, with no more than a few Hold guards as their escort. In the torch-light, Eirik could see that they wore green and those who still bore shields bore the white ram's head as their badge: the token of Markarth. Straightway they came to meet their group and Eirik sighed in relief, sheathing his blade as he approached one of the guards.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"We're on our way north," the guard said. "Perhaps to Dragon Bridge or Solitude."

"Why?"

"Our village, Karthwasten, was attacked by a dragon," the guard said. "It...it burned half of the village. We tried to fight it, but...half of our company was wiped out. I've never seen such a beast reek such destruction! It's true, just like my granddad always said: the dragons are coming back, the end of the world ain't far off now."

"Is this all that remains?" Mjoll asked.

"Nay," the soldier replied. "Most of the people ran south, towards Markarth. I say they won't last long there. Times are hard in Markarth, what with the many thefts and the increasing violence. The Hold guards in the city turn the other cheek when someone dies. Heh! They say it's worse here than in Riften, even before the Empire took it back. That's why me and my lads fled north with anyone we could find. It's safer in Solitude than in Markarth."

"When did the dragon attack?" Eirik asked.

"Yesterday," he said. "In the afternoon. As darkness was falling, it suddenly fled south-east, to some other evil purpose no doubt."

The Hold guard dismissed himself, then went on his way, leading the others after him. Eirik saw, in the light of the torches, the scared and weary faces of those who had fled the burning of Karthwasten. Some were covered in soot and ash and blood and sweat: a smell which made Eirik's mind immediately recall the images of Helgen and the appearance of the black dragon Alduin. Some of the people were muttering the old folk he had heard in many a tavern across Skyrim.

_It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes  
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes_

But he was here, doing something other than fighting the dragons. How many people, he thought, were thus being driven from their land, forced to seek refuge in other cities, while he wandered about, fighting vampires and cultists in dark caves or on Solstheim? He was determined, now, to learn how to fight again. He would not let their cries fall on deaf ears: let the bards call him Eirik Left-Hand, he would do as was his destiny.

"Come along," he said to the others at last. "We cannot help them now."

It pained him to leave, for he had experienced firsthand the horrors of a dragon's attack over and over. To leave them felt like a betrayal of his true purpose, but there was nothing he could do. He mounted his horse again and then continued back into the darkness, the light of the torches fading behind them until they were nothing more than a few pinpricks of light crossing the great Dragon Bridge.

"Now, then," Rayya said. "Let us go onward. We still have to find this Moth priest."

"I think we may have," Serana said. She dismounted from off Lydia's horse and began walking about the road around them.

"We need light," Eirik said.

Rayya immediately removed a small wooden box from a pouch that hung upon her belt, opened it and knelt on the ground. With her flint and tinder, she struck a small light, which she used as she walked off the path and found a dead branch lying on the ground. Attaching the tinder to the branch, she soon had a make-shift torch, which she used to light their way. But what they saw was horrifying. A little before them was the ruin of a carriage, like the ones found in the Hold capitals. All around them they could hear the buzzing of flies and they saw, at their feet, the bodies of an escort of Imperial soldiers. The ground also around them was stained black with old blood. Serana, to whom the smell of death was not strange, knelt down among the corpses and began examining them.

"Most of these don't look Cyrodilian," she said. "These soldiers were Nords."

Eirik said nothing, for his mind drew back once again to the young Nord he had fought in the Pale, what seemed like a life-time ago. This war was tearing Skyrim apart, brother against brother, family against family, clan against clan. And for what? The unification of Skyrim, under Ulfric Stormcloak, of course, the one who murdered women and children, Nord and Reachmen, in his bid to secure Markarth and enforce the free rule of Talos. But was this what he had been fighting for?

"They weren't killed in a skirmish, though," Serana said.

"What do you mean?" Rayya asked.

"Most of them have broken necks," she said. "Or their heads and helmets have been crushed and caved in. They also have large wounds on their necks and arms, like they've been bitten into by a wild animal. I think this was a vampire attack."

"She's right," Lydia said. "Over here!"

Rayya and the others walked over to where Lydia knelt over a body. This one, unlike the others, was not clad in the garb and armor of the Imperial Legion. Instead, it was clad similar to those Eirik had seen in the main hall of Castle Volkihar. Serana knelt at Lydia's side and held up the vampire's head, prying open its eye-lids.

"He's a vampire, alright," she replied, then began examining his body for some reason as to how he had been slain. "Aha! Here it is." She waved Rayya forward, pointing towards the vampire's chest, where the shivered blade of an Imperial gladius lay fast therein. "He's been run through the heart with this sword. That's the only way to kill one: stab the heart or take off the head."

"That seems easy enough," Rayya replied.

"Except vampires are fast," she said. "Faster even than the fastest Elf or man. I'd like to see you try to take off the head of a vampire lord."

"Look here," Lydia said, opening up the vampire's sack on its belt. "There's a knife, and this note. Rayya, bring the torch closer."

"What does it say?" Mjoll, who was at the back of the ground and could not read it in the dark, asked.

"It's rather crude," Eirik said. "But there's enough to be read. It says this: '_I have new orders for you. Prepare an ambush just south of Dragon Bridge. Take the Moth priest to Forebear's Holdout for safekeeping until I can break his will. - Malkus_.'"

"Who's Malkus?" Lydia asked.

"I'm not sure," Serana said. "There are many different clans of vampires in Skyrim. Not all are loyal to my father and not all know of his plans. This might be a rival clan merely culling the local populace."

"Where's Forebear's Hold?" Eirik asked.

"I've heard of that," Mjoll said. "I think it's somewhere east of here, somewhere in western Hjaalmarch."

"Then we've passed it again," Serana said.

"Should we wait for morning?" Rayya asked. "Since we all seem to be passing all the signs as it is in the darkness?"

"We should go now," Serana retorted. "If we go in darkness, most of the vampires will be out hunting and our odds of taking them off their guard will be increased. If we go in the day, they will be hiding there from the sun. No, we cannot wait for the sun: we _have_ to attack now!"

"But can we reach there in the dead of night?" Eirik asked.

"You have me with you," she replied. "I think we won't be getting lost."

Serana set out a few feet away from the caravan attack, when at last she appeared again, her hand covered in something that glistened in the light of the torch.

"Blood," she said. She brought her hand to her lips and tasted the blood. "Cyrodilic, I'd think." She smiled. "I think we're on the trail."

* * *

They mounted up and followed as Serana urged Lydia on the way to go, always leaning out to sniff for the scent of blood. Thus they traveled south and east for a long while, until at last the light of Rayya's torch saw the stone face of large rocks before them, leading up to a cliff above them. Here they dismounted and, in the darkness with Serana leading them and Rayya's dwindling torch held aloft for light, they clambered up the side of the cliff. The going was by no means easy: they slipped and more than a few times, Serana had to jump in and pull the horse onto sure ground.

At last, they arrived at the top of the cliff-side. A cold wind blew upon them and they guessed, from its direction, that they were mostly open to the wind. Nearby they could hear the rustling of the branches of tall trees in the midnight wind. Rayya's torch cast light on several tall standing stones before the entrance of a cave that was nestled near the tall trees. At once they began tying up their horses to the trees and readying themselves, weary as they were, to enter the cave.

"I want a chance to face these monsters myself," Mjoll said, which earned her a hiss from Serana.

"Take everything with us," Eirik said. "We don't know what our needs will be once we're inside."

Once they had secured the horses, the five of them drew their weapons and walked into the cave. As the tunnel turned to the right, they saw a brazier giving off light. Obviously this cavern was still inhabited. Rayya ran back out of the cave and returned with another branch, as the one she had been using as a torch was now useless. This one she secured with some spare shreds of the priestly robes, then placed it in the brazier, giving them new light as they went onward. A few more feet in and they could hear the rush of water just beyond. At last they found themselves before a stone rail, beyond which they could hear loudly the rush of water.

"Look," Mjoll said. "There's a light at the far end of the cave, across the rushing water."

"It's unnatural," Rayya said. "Neither torch nor the light of the moon or stars."

"We're definitely on the right trail," Serana added. "That could be where they're holding the Moth priest."

"Ugh," Mjoll groaned, her nose cinching up as though she smelt something awful. "Dark sorcery. Always makes my skin crawl."

"I feel the same way," Rayya added. "It's unnatural, all of it."

"How do we get inside?" Lydia asked.

"There should be a focusing stone," Serana said. "Something we could use to drop the shield."

"Where would it be?" Eirik asked.

"Obviously not lying around here," Serana said. "Let's try to find a way over there. That's the best place to look for it, I say."

With Rayya's torch in the lead, they followed the rail until it led to a long stair-well made of stone. It ran all the way to the bottom of the cavern, where the noise of water rang the loudest. One by one they walked towards the sound of rushing water and found a long stream flowing across their path. They looked first right and saw that it went down to a large pool that vanished in the darkness, while left it was forded by a small bridge. They decided to cross the bridge and look for a way to reach that light they had seen.

Suddenly something big and black leaped out of the darkness and tackled Mjoll to the ground. But whatever it had been was not counting on its enemy being Mjoll the Lioness. She punched the thing in its snout three times, then wrapped her arms around its neck and twisted until there was a loud crack. She rose, with cuts across her face from the beast's claws, but the beast did not arise.

"Death-hounds," Serana said, looking down at the black dog-shaped thing lying on the floor of the cave. "Vampires use them as watch-dogs."

"I remember these kinds of hounds in Volkihar Castle," Eirik said.

"Shh!" Serana whispered. "I think I hear something."

They remained quiet for a while, hearing only the rush of water upon stone. Then they heard it, a bowstring groaning under tension as it was being drawn back. Serana vanished, and suddenly there was a horrified cry that was suddenly muffled, and then all was quiet again. Eirik looked about and saw a light coming from the far left side of the cavern. Walking that way, he saw a warm fire crackling under a small shaft in the rock that allowed the smoke to escape. But standing before the fire was Serana, with the body of a dead bandit lying at her feet.

"A vampire's thrall," she said. "Living people subdued under the power of a stronger vampire." She turned about and Eirik saw that the lower part of her mouth was covered in blood from the mouth downward.

"What?" she asked, as she noticed the look he was giving her. "I don't stare at you when you eat or drink."

Eirik sighed, reminding himself that Serana was fundamentally different than the others, Nord though she may be. He cast his eyes down and said nothing else.

"You might want to keep it quiet," Serana said, picking up the arm of the slain thrall and wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Just over there are some stairs and I heard something big growling."

Eirik saw the stairs at the far end of the little landing where the fire-pit was, and beyond he could see the glowing light of the magical barrier. Suddenly, from those stairs descended two figures clad in black, but whose eyes were glowing in the darkness. Serana immediately leaped after them and the others, tired of waiting, rounded the corner and saw the newcomers. Lydia drew out her sword, Rayya drew out both of her scimitars and Mjoll, Grimsever in hand, charged towards one of the vampires whom Serana had thrown off of her. She brought Grimsever down through its chest while, near at hand, Rayya decapitated it with her two swords. The other vampire Serana had held down to the ground, and ordered Lydia to come over. The huscarl drove her sword through the beast's chest, then delivered a follow-up blow that severed its head from its neck.

Suddenly they heard the low growl and could hear heavy footsteps coming down the steps towards them.

"Do I have to do everything for you?" a voice asked. It was deep and gravely, the voice of one of the green-skinned Orsimer, or Orcs.

Eirik moved himself in front of the approaching figure, breathed in, then shouted. "_Yol!_"

The Orc caught fire, flailed about for a few minutes, then shrugged off the fire as he threw off his jacket. With a roar, the Orc vampire went into a berserker rage and charged at Eirik, throwing him against the stone wall with such ferocity that Eirik was sure that something had broken. The Orc's foul breath stung his nostrils and his red eyes were filled with hate.

"You know something, human?" he said with disgust. "When I'm through with you, no one will ever recognize your body, if I even leave that much left of you!"

But Lydia approached from the right and ran her sword through the Orc's chest. It roared, but her blow had missed the heart by a finger's width. He turned towards the huscarl and leaped after her. He was on top of her in moments, beating at her shield with his bare hands. Eirik jumped on him from behind and struck his head with his fist once, twice, three times until the Orc turned and roared at him. But Eirik was not wholly useless. His left hand, still aching from the blows, drew out his seax and drove it into the Orc's neck. But even that was not enough to stop him. He turned again on Eirik, throwing him with ease to the ground and pressing upon him with the whole force of his body, with hairy hands and iron-like finger-nails keeping a tight grip on Eirik's neck.

Suddenly something else tackled the Orc off Eirik and was holding it on the ground, both hands on its huge head while steel-clad legs pinned his body from moving. The Orc thrashed and flailed his head this way and that, roaring loudly, as the hands of the Lioness pushed and pushed, trying to twist its head off. On and on they rolled about, her hands clenching fast upon the head, twisting and turning. She gave out a loud cry and then pushed as hard as she could: there was a loud snap and the head hung loosely, but the body still flailed. One hand reached to the beast's shoulder and drew out Eirik's seax, which she thrust into its neck. Then finally the Orc ceased to move and collapsed on top of her.

"Mjoll," Eirik said, pushing the huge Orc body off Serana. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, love," she replied, rising to her feet.

"There it is!" Serana cried out and ran over to the Orc's body, picking up a circular stone with curious teal etchings upon it. "They Weystone focusing stone."

Together they walked up the stairs and saw the great magical barrier in the center of the room. After a brief examination, they saw that, within the shield, lay several standing stones and between them one standing who was dressed in gray robes, bald and had a long, white beard. Serana vanished for a moment, then suddenly there was a loud rumbling as the standing stones disappeared into the floor and the magical shield vanished. Suddenly, the old man lunged out at Eirik, hands grasping for his throat.

"Stop!" Eirik cried out. "We're not going to hurt you!"

"Hit him!" Rayya cried out. Not waiting for Eirik to reply, Lydia struck the old man on the back of his head with the pommel of her sword.

"What's gotten into him?" Eirik asked.

"Enthralled," Serana said. "We may be too late."

Moments later, the old man slowly rose from where he had fallen, rubbing the back of his bald head. He looked about for a moment, then held out his hands, which brushed against Eirik's face.

"What have I done?" he asked. "I-I am sorry. I was not myself. I could see you, but I couldn't stop myself."

"No harm done," Eirik replied, winking at Lydia.

"Thank the Divines for you," the old man said. "I am Dexion Evicus, Moth priest of the Order of the Ancestor Moths."

"What did the vampires want you for?" Eirik asked.

"That I don't know," he replied. "They never told me. Perhaps they wanted to hold me for ransom, the fools."

"Can you stand? We need your help," Eirik said.

"What could you possibly need with an old blind man?" Dexion chuckled.

"I have an Elder Scroll..." Eirik began.

"Indeed?" Dexion asked. "And what would some adventurer need with a thing of such power?"

"I'm not just any adventurer," Eirik said. "I'm with the Dawnguard."

"Ah, now I see," Dexion said, a smile on his face. "The ancient order of vampire hunters. Well, the wisdom of the Scrolls is open to all, even your order. Now then, if you will please, lead on."

* * *

**(AN: My laptop's battery ran out while I was writing this, but it never showed the indicator [and, of course, my laptop's charger port isn't working, so i can't just "plug it in" and charge my battery]. Thankfully, I had saved everything.)**

**(I'm already thinking up a reason for the Dragon Elder Scroll, which is another reason I wanted to get this part of the story together.)**


	67. Checkmate

**(AN: I had originally decided to do this later on in the story, but since I need to tackle at least one thing first, I'm thinking that this would be a good way to do it. Just wait.)**

**(Oh, and I've lost track of time, so I had to do a little back-tracking and, for future reference [mostly for me], the morning of this chapter, on which they leave Forbear's Hold, is about the 13th of Sun's Dusk. Also, since, eventually, we will be continuing with the _Dawnguard_ story-line, I had to say that there is something I didn't like about Valerica in the standard version of the game, and that was her Chun-Li hair-buns. There's a mod at the Skyrim Nexus [BVFE - Serana and Family] which looks lore-friendly [imo] and I think its version of Valerica looks the best. I'm still sticking to standard Serana, though, because that one looks good. I don't have that mod on my brothers PC version of _Skyrim_ because we don't have _Dawnguard_ installed. It is on our PS3 version, but that can't be modded [lol, yes, he bought the PC version just for the mods].)  
**

* * *

**Checkmate  
**

With the cave cleared out of enemies, the travelers made their bed around the fire-pit within. Serana tended the fire while the others slept. Eirik, as usual, could not sleep for the most time. He cast eyes at Mjoll, wondering if he would ever know her as he had known his own huscarl. They were husband and wife, and yet he could feel as though there still remained an invisible barrier between them. At last, however, his eyes fell shut and he fell into sleep.

In the morning, Eirik woke up and saw that the others were getting their things together, eating what of their supplies they still had left. Serana ate nothing, but she made sure the old Dexion had enough to eat.

"How have my companions been treating you, old man?" Eirik asked.

"Well enough," Dexion replied. "It's safe to say that my journey to Skyrim has been adventurous to say the least."

"What brought you here?" Eirik asked. "The borders are closed."

"I had to buy a letter of admission from the Emperor himself," Dexion said. "Just to cross the border. I spent several days in the Jerall Mountains, just waiting for my letter to be confirmed once the patrols stopped me. Ah, but it was worth it. I've heard rumors trickling down to Cyrodiil that the Elder Scrolls have resurfaced. While that's a tall order, considering that they exist and don't exist, and that numbering them or naming them is dangerous, in that they might become greater or fewer in number, I had to discover if this were true."

"And the Emperor just let you do this?" Eirik asked.

"No, I still had to pay over a thousand septims for the letter," Dexion replied.

"But why would he let you break the curfew?" Eirik pressed.

"Why else would the Emperor of Cyrodiil want the Elder Scrolls returned?" Dexion reasoned. "Ever since the War with the Dominion, the White-Gold Tower has laid in ruins, the Elder Scrolls absconded from there by some unknown power. It would be a great boon to the Empire if the fabled Elder Scrolls were returned to the Capital City."

"You mean it would be a great boon in their war against the Stormcloaks?" Eirik replied.

"I don't give a damn about this civil war," Dexion said. "That's Skyrim's problem, not mine."

"So, what about the Elder Scrolls?" Eirik asked. "Can you read them?"

"Of course," Dexion replied. "We spend many years preparing for reading them. Mortals are incapable of reading the Elder Scrolls, for the reading of them robs them somewhat of their sight. After long periods of exteded reading, the reader eventually loses sight all together."

"But that's horrible," Mjoll said.

"A small price to pay for great knowledge," Dexion replied.

"Can you read this one?" Eirik asked, handing him the Elder Scroll which he had found in the Tower of Mzark. He placed it in his hands, and Dexion asked them to be quiet as he read the scroll.

"There is not much to see here," he began. "It is all blurry and unclear. But I think...yes, I think I see...a snowy peak, and three figures standing upon the peak. I see a dark shadow pass over the peak and words of hatred spoken. They are unclear, as though spoken from the bottom of a well. Ah, but the vision fades and there is nothing more, or else it is not for my eyes to see, and not here."

"What do you mean?" Eirik asked.

"This scroll, at least from what I gathered," Dexion said. "Concerns the ancient secrets of dragons. The snowy peak, I feel, is the fabled Throat of the World, the highest point in all of Skyrim. But who those shapes were, I cannot tell. I know very little of Nord history, you'd have to ask someone who knows that. Also I..."

"What?" both Eirik and Serana asked as one.

"I saw that there was something hidden within the visions," Dexion stated. "Something that connects to something else, something about the sun..."

Eirik sighed, wondering what either the Greybeards of Paarthurnax would have to say about Dexion's words.

"Did you say the sun?" Serana asked.

"Yes, I did," Dexion replied.

"Can you read this?" Serana asked, removing from her back the Elder Scroll which he had kept there since Eirik first met her. This she placed in Dexion's hands and, once again, he called for silence as he unfurled the scroll and began to read silently.

"Hmm," he said. "Interesting. I see a vision before my eyes. I...there's not much visible here, but...yes, I see something. A great bow. The Bow of Auriel! Now I hear something else, a voice: 'Among the night's children a dreadlord will rise in an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and the day will be as one.' The words are fading and, wait...I think I see...no, no, it is gone now. My vision fades once again. I see no more."

"What was that last bit?" Serana asked. "What did you see?"

"Oh, I can't rightly tell," he replied. "I saw the words 'Night Eternity', but only in part before the words began to shimmer and distort. I thought I saw an addendum, something else hidden, perhaps a secret message? 'The secret is written elsewhere.'"

"Elsweyr?" Lydia asked.

"No, elsewhere!" Rayya retorted, annoyance in her voice.

"I think that there is more to the prophecy," Dexion said. "Perhaps recorded in the other scrolls. I saw something about the potency of ancient blood. Perhaps that is the contents of the third scroll, the last piece of this puzzle." He sighed. "I need to rest. Reading two Scrolls at once has wearied me."

"Take your rest, then," Eirik said. "We shall leave in an hour's time."

The others, seeing that there was nothing else to be learned at this moment, began to gather their things together for the journey ahead. Serana, meanwhile, walked up closer to Eirik.

"Do you have a moment?" she asked.

"What's on your mind?" Eirik asked.

"Not here," she said. "Lets go out to the cave entrance and see to the horses."

Eirik and Serana walked quietly the rest of the way through the cave and came out at the tunnel, where daylight greeted them. The horses, thank the Nine, were unharmed and still stood by their trees, grazing on the grass that grew around them. Serana would not leave the shadow of the overhung cave's roof, so Eirik walked back and approached her.

"I think I can help you," she said.

"With what?" Eirik asked.

"Stopping this prophecy," Serana began. "That is what you want, isn't it?" Eirik nodded. "Well, I heard Dexion say that he needed another Elder Scroll. I think I might know where to start looking for one."

"Another one?" Eirik asked. "Did your family collect Elder Scrolls?"

She chuckled. "My father was after the ones that would fulfill the prophecy of the Night Eternity. And there were many beyond even our reach. It maddened him and..." She sighed. "Drove a wedge between us. We sort of just drifted apart." She turned back to Eirik. "That night, when we returned to the Castle, I realized that he doesn't see me as his daughter anymore, just a means to an end."

"I am sorry," Eirik replied.

"It was years ago," she said. "Centuries upon centuries, even."

"But it must anger you, at least," Eirik said. "To see how far away he's become, how he treats you."

"Yes, it does," she replied. "But look, my personal feelings aren't an issue right now. What's important is finding this Elder Scroll. Do you want to find it or not?"

"Aye, where is it?"

"Well, I don't have it," she said. "But I know someone who would definitely know where it is. Maybe she even has it!"

"Who?"

"My mother, Valerica Volkihar," she replied.

"And where is she?" Eirik asked, raking his brains over, trying to remember if she had mentioned her mother before in their journeys together.

"I don't know," Serana stated. "The last time I saw her, she said she'd go somewhere safe: somewhere that my father would never search. Didn't tell me anything else, I assume in case I betrayed her and sided with father. But the way she _said_ it, 'someplace he would never search.' Like she was calling attention to those five words in particular. Only problem is, I've never been able to figure that out. I mean, he's been awake for four thousand years, so it's not like he hasn't had time to search everywhere in Skyrim, not to mention all of Tamriel. What do you think?"

"What about the last place he would have expected to search for her?" Eirik asked.

"What, the castle?" she chuckled, then suddenly a wizened expression appeared on her face. "Wait, that's not really that improbable. I...I remember, mother and I used to tend a garden in the courtyard of the castle, it was where she grew the ingredients for her potions. She told me that father never came there: said it was 'too peaceful.'"

"Still," Eirik said. "Remember when we were last there? The gates were guarded and watched _and_ Lord Harkon banished me from the castle grounds. They won't just open the front gates if we come knocking again."

"There's another way," Serana added. "An unused inlet on the northern side of the castle. I think the ancient Nords used it to bring supplies into the castle. There's a secret passage that goes from there inside the castle: I think that's our way in."

"How do you know it's not been found, blocked off or is being guarded?" Eirik asked. "After all, you _did_ say that your father has had so much time searching for your mother. Surely he knows his own castle inside and out."

"Of course there's a risk," she replied. "But it's the only way."

"Well, we should get Dexion to Fort Dawnguard," Eirik began. "Then we'll head north to the castle."

"Uh, not quite yet," Serana said. "I'm not letting just anybody into my family castle."

"The others?"

"They'll have to go," she repeated.

"Is that why you wanted to speak to me in private?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she replied.

He sighed, realizing that this would, once again, place him in another awkward situation. Not only would he have to spend time sending the others off, but he would also have to learn how to fight with his left hand with Rayya, which would mean at least three weeks, possibly a month or two, and the Nine alone knew what would befall Skyrim in that time.

"Very well," he said at last. "I'll send Lydia and Mjoll back to Whiterun, then dismiss Rayya and I'll be on my way there. I remember the way. What about you?"

"Well, I think the safest place for Dexion would be the Dawnguard fort," she said. "But I don't know if they'd take kindly to me if I went there on my own."

"Explain to them about Dexion," Eirik stated.

"I still don't think that'll be enough," Serana replied.

"Then you tell Isran," Eirik returned. "That if he harms so much as one hair on your head, that I will turn and use my Voice to bring Fort Dawnguard to the ground. You can give as example of my power what Ulfric did at Markarth. That should be enough to grant you protection and if not..."

Serana smiled. "You're learning."

* * *

In less than an hour, Dexion Evicus had rested and they were all ready to go forth from this place. Rayya and Serana helped Dexion climb atop Rayya's horse, while the others helped secure their gear onto their horses. Once they were all ready, they mounted up and began the long and arduous search for a safe way down the small mountain on which they rested and a path which would lead them through the marshes of Hjaalmarch and eastwards, towards the Rift.

The way back down the mountain was easy in daylight, and soon they were riding on the road leading east which, by and by, would take them to the lake-town of Morthal. Having frequented Morthal quite a few times in the past, Eirik did not relish the prospect of going thither once again, especially since he heard from the Cyrodilian woman at the Dead Man's Drink of vampire activity in Hjaalmarch. Therefore, ere they crossed the Hjaal River, they would strike south, for Whiterun. There they would ride east until they saw the golden roof of the hall of Dragonsreach. From there, he surmised that he would leave Mjoll and Lydia behind while Rayya, Serana and he would carry on to the Rift and deposit Dexion at Fort Dawnguard before turning back west, towards the castle.

The going was slow, for now all of their horses bore at least two passengers. Rayya's small Hammerfell horse, unlike the large, Skyrim stallions and mares owned by Lydia and Eirik, could not carry both of their weight and run at the same time, which slowed down their pace considerably. But there was no immediate hurry, for it seemed that they would arrive in Whiterun by, at the very latest, midnight.

"What day is today?" Eirik asked. "I've lost track of time since we left Whiterun."

"You arrived in Falkreath on the eleventh of Sun's Dusk," Rayya said. "That was two nights ago, which means this is the thirteenth."

"It's been two and a half months since Helgen," Eirik replied.

"I've heard about what happened," Rayya said. "I wouldn't have believed the stories had I not seen the dragon we fought two nights ago."

While they rode on in apparent peace and safety, Mjoll changed to cast her eyes behind them and saw several figures in black far away on the road behind them.

"Behind, love," she said. "I think someone is coming up the road to meet us."

"Keep riding," Eirik said, though his voice betrayed some annoyance. He had hoped that their tenure in the cave had thrown off pursuit, if, as he guessed, the Penitus Oculatus made it to Solitude and discovered that he wasn't really an Imperial spy. He prayed to the Nine that this was only a detachment of the Legion on some other business, business which had nothing to do with him or his own, and therefore would be allowed to pass by unmolested. But, for safety's sake, he chose to ride on and not look back.

They rode on again, until at last they could see in the distance the snaking line of the Hjaal River just beyond. They would be in Whiterun in no time, having made such good time despite their lack of speed. As they were making their way thither, the sound of hooves and men on horse-back urging their horses onward could be heard behind them. For a moment Eirik looked behind them, but there was still no apparent indication as to who these newcomers were.

"I don't like the sound of that pursuit," he said again. "We're moving too slow."

"We can't go any faster," Rayya retorted.

"We have to," Eirik insisted. "If they catch up with us and they are who I think they are..."

"Imperials," Serana replied. "I can smell them from over here. And..." She sniffed the air. "...an Elf!"

"Those damn Thalmor," Eirik stated. "Now I _know_ we can't stop. Faster!"

"My horse can't run any faster!" Rayya stated.

"Maybe if you had a proper horse and not that little racing dog," Eirik retorted.

"Insult my horse again and I'll cut off your other hand," Rayya threatened.

"Are we going or not?" Mjoll interjected. "The more we argue, the closer they get!"

"Go," Eirik said, turning to the others. "Lydia, take Serana as far as Fort Dawnguard, then go back to Breezehome and stay put until you hear from me. Rayya, you follow Lydia to the Rift and deliver Dexion to the Dawnguard, then you're free to leave."

"But if that's the Empire," Dexion said. "Maybe they can help us."

"No, not us," Eirik replied. "The Empire is bad news."

"Bad news?" he asked. "What does that mean? Just who have I taken up with anyway?"

"My thane, I can't leave you here," Lydia said.

"You've always had no trouble losing yourself when in my service," Eirik replied. "This is just like that, only now I'm ordering you to go."

"I'm sworn to protect you!" she stated.

"Do as I say!" Eirik shouted. "Now is not the time for arguing!"

"Let me stay at least!" Serana added. "I'm sure I could take on maybe half a legion, even in the sun."

"No," Eirik retorted. "If I get out alive, I'll meet you at Castle Volkihar. But I won't have you throwing yourself needlessly upon the swords of the Imperial Legion!"

But it was too late. From the hill over which they had just come, a company of Imperial soldiers on horseback galloped down and formed a ring around them. Some of them were Nords, with bows drawn from the backs of their horses and aimed directly at them. Others had spears and lances in their hands, which they pointed in the direction of the small company. One of them, Eirik saw, was a black-robed Thalmor justicar, aloof with head held high and barking out orders to the soldiers.

"Dismount!" the Imperial captain said.

"All of us?" Mjoll asked.

"Just the tall one," the captain said, pointing at Eirik.

"Run," he whispered to the others. "Run and don't look back. I need you to obey me now."

"Enough talk!" the captain shouted. "Dismount now!"

Eirik, keeping his eyes on the enemy, slowly dismounted off his horse. The Imperial captain brought his horse closer to where Eirik stood.

"You are under arrest for high treason against the Empire of Cyrodiil," the captain said. "As well as acts of sedition and rebellion against the rightful rulers of Skyrim. You will now come peacefully with us to Solitude."

Eirik looked at the others, still in their saddles, looks of resolution in their eyes. They would stand by him in this moment of his need, but he was not willing to let them die for him. He was useless now, one hand barely able to hold anything heavier than a quill, and now captured once again by the Empire, just as when he made his return to Skyrim two and a half months ago. But he had something now which he had not before, something that he hoped would give his companions a chance to escape. Perhaps Crixus would be willing to carry the torch and complete the destiny he would not be able to fulfill.

"Skyrim for the Nords!" Eirik shouted, then turned his face eastward, towards the lines of the Imperial cavalry, then shouted: "_Fus Ro Dah!_"

Men and horses went flying aside as the power of Eirik's Thu'um threw down all before him. Then he ran back to the horses and struck their flanks as hard as he could with both hands. Already spooked by the sudden rush of wind and the loud Voice, they took off without a second thought when so struck. Suddenly he was thrown to the ground, pinned under a heavy thing covered in the Nordic steel of the Skaal as something went whistling over his head.

"Go!" Eirik shouted. "It's me they want!"

"No!" the voice of Mjoll the Lioness replied. "I swore we would be together, forever, until the Divines take us. And so it shall be: I'm staying with you."

Just then, he heard laughter from those gathered around them.

"A Nord and her man!"

"Milk-drinker needs a woman to save him!"

"So much for 'death and glory', you rebel scum!"

"Quiet in the ranks!" the captain shouted. "Gather! Prepare to charge!"

"No!" a voice replied. This was a new voice, one Eirik had never heard before.

"He attacked my men!" the captain retorted. "I don't care about your orders, I'll kill him now!"

"The High Justicar will have _your_ head," the new voice said. "If that man is not brought back to Solitude alive."

Eirik was now on his feet and helping Mjoll back onto hers. To his shock, he saw that an arrow was sticking in her back. She had thrown herself upon him as the Imperials loosed their arrows to take him down. Her body saved him from death. With a loud cry, she drew out Grimsever and stood to challenge those around them.

"Take them both," the new voice ordered.

Eirik suddenly felt something heavy strike him on the back of his head, he saw stars, and then all was blackness.

* * *

**(AN: I haven't really had a cliff-hangar in a long while, so I thought the story needed one right now.)  
**


	68. The Flight

**(AN: I've been replaying through _Skyrim_, mostly for the fun of it, and I took up both the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild quests. Despite my brothers protests, Maven Black-Briar actually does control the Dark Brotherhood. She will even threaten you with them if you talk to her too much. My guess is that, without a Listener, they resorted to just taking jobs from whoever paid the most, namely Maven Black-Briar and others. To that end, wouldn't Maven try to control the Listener, should he or she appear, to try to maintain some kind of hold over the Dark Brotherhood?)**

* * *

**The Flight**

When Eirik at last came to, he found himself in a dark cell, surrounded by walls of stone. Everything on his person was gone: his armor, his sword, his sack of supplies, even his amulet of Talos. There was no light, only a small shaft coming through from high on the wall of his cell, near the ceiling. He moved, but found that his arms and hands were shackled to the wall. He tried to speak, but found that his mouth had been gagged. He looked around, but there was no sign of Mjoll or the others anywhere in his cell.

"He's awake!" a voice called out from down the hall. Eirik heard footsteps, then someone appeared at the barred door of the cell with the keys. Once the door was opened, he walked forward and threw a sack over Eirik's face. There was now only blackness all around him and what he could feel and hear. The sound of the locks of his shackles clanging was heard, and he guessed that he was now being unchained. Suddenly strong hands lifted him up and onto his feet, then began dragging him forward and out of the prison cell.

"Wait, strike him," a voice said. Suddenly something hit Eirik's head so hard that he saw stars. As he was being carried, he now had little sense of which direction he was going, for his head was still reeling from the blow. So he swam in the dark for what seemed like a long time. Ever and anon, light would seep in through the fabric, but it was never enough for him to see just where he was at or what his surroundings were. From what he had heard before, he guessed that he had been brought to Solitude, but he had no true clue. It had been almost three months since we was in Solitude and remembered very little of it.

At last, the lights vanished and he was thrown knee first onto a bed of small, rock-like things that were ice-cold and bore into his knees. Suddenly, he felt hands binding his own hands behind his back and his legs together. After this was done, the sack was removed from off his head and he got a glimpse of where he had been deposited. It was a room in a stone castle, and the designs and artistry on the walls seemed very un-Nordic. But then he saw before him possibly the ugliest thing he had ever laid eyes upon. Of all the Altmeri Eirik had seen, this was possibly the ugliest one: he felt, even by the standards of the Altmer, this person was unappealing. He had a high forehead, but the rest of his head was narrow and his yellow eyes were so slanted that it looked as though he was always looking upon Eirik with disdain. His cheekbones were so visible and his mouth was so thin, his face looked almost skeletal. He was dressed in the robes of the Thalmor justicars with which Eirik had fought throughout Skyrim, only his robes were unstained by travel and he wore no hood.

"Ah, there you are," the Elf greeted. "Eirik Ice-Blood, I believe, called by some the Dragonborn." He chuckled. "Oh, don't bother. I've made special arrangements in your case." He pointed to the gag on his mouth. "Don't want you shouting anyone apart like your precious Ulfric Stormcloak. The side effects of this mean, of course, that you can't speak in your own defense. A pity, but not that it will be necessary. One thing Governor Tullius did right was to abolish trials against you rebels: no need to waste time letting you people make some grand speech to the simple-minded white provincials, trying to convince them of the 'merit' of your lost cause."

Eirik tried to struggle, but found that his bonds were fast and sure. He could not break them, no matter how hard he tried. They had made sure to take everything from him and ensure his bonds would not be broken by some accident.

"I suppose you're wondering who I am and why you're here," the Elf continued. "Well, it should be obvious, or at least it should be to someone of any _real_ brains, not like you dung-wallowing, straw-headed apes! But..." He laughed as Eirik tried to struggle against his bonds. "I'm not as foolish as your General Tullius or Ulfric Stormcloak. I won't surrender my name to you, not if there's a chance that you might escape." He scoffed. "Though there is no reason to worry. You _will_ die tomorrow, and your woman..." He chuckled. "Well, all the women of the slave races of Tamriel throw themselves at my feet, begging me to take them as my consorts."

He gestured to someone whom Eirik could not see, and he was suddenly lifted off his feet. The Elf then stood up and slowly walked towards him. Suddenly Eirik was doubled over as a swift knee-blow from the Elf struck him in the groin. Then he was slapped across the face, causing him to fall to his knees upon the cold hard pebbles. He couldn't even cry out, for his bonds kept him from speaking.

"If you happen to see him tomorrow," the Elf said. "Give my regards to Crixus. Like the rest of his foolish Empire, as well as you half-wit Nords he has been willing in his service to our cause. But he was responsible for your capture, and so he is not entirely without merit."

Another gesture and Eirik was struck again, now lying practically prostrate before the tall Elf.

"Take him back to his cell," the Elf said. "He dies in the morning."

Once more the sack was thrown over Eirik's head and he was struck again, disorienting him that he would, as he had now guessed, would not be able to find his way, should, perchance, he happen to escape. But that was unlikely, for this Elf had been very thorough, even so much as binding him in his cell, that he try not to pick the locks or escape by some other way. When at last the sack was removed from over his head, he found himself back in the cell in which he had awoken, bound hand and foot. With no food, he merely lay there with his head against the bars, until at last sleep claimed him.

* * *

"I, Eirik Bjornsson," he recited. "Do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim."

He was kneeling before the throne in the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm. Before him stood Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's huscarl, lieutenant and an aged warrior of many winters. Upon the throne sat Ulfric, who listened to the oath of fealty made by his newest subject. Behind Eirik knelt Lydia, with his great-sword of steel in her hands.

"As Talos is my witness," Eirik continued. "May this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

"And gladly do I accept it, Eirik Bjornsson," Ulfric replied. "You now stand along-side your brothers and sisters in the fight to liberate Skyrim from her oppressors and restore what is rightfully ours. Talk to my friend Galmar Stone-Fist for your first assignment."

The assignment, as Eirik had remembered it, involved breaking into an ancient ruin, Korvanjund, in northern Whiterun, and recovering a priceless artifact: the Jagged Crown. The history behind it was that the High King of Skyrim wore the crown as a symbol of his authority, but that it had been lost early on in the 4th century of the First Era. The location of the crown had been lost to the ages, but Ulfric had deduced that it had come back to Skyrim from the Wild Hunt and was buried with King Borgas in the Korvanjund barrow.

But Eirik had more things in mind than searching for an old crown. He was only staying in Windhelm for a short while, to join the fight against the puppet Empire and the tyrannical Thalmor. He intended to travel west, to another barrow in Hjaalmarch called Ustengrav, and retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, founder of the Greybeards, and return it to High Hrothgar.

Suddenly the image faded before Eirik's eyes, and he saw before him a tall warrior, wearing a tall helmet, bearing a sword in one hand. From the statues he had seen across Skyrim, he knew who this man was, for he was man no more.

"What right do you claim to enter Sovngarde?" the Hero-King asked.

"I have lived and died honorably," Eirik said, though he did not command the words to be spoken. "I have proclaimed your name throughout all of Skyrim, I have fought your enemies, and I have ended my life honorably, dying in battle as befits the true sons of Skyrim."

"Ever have you broken your vows," the Hero-King replied. "Twice unto your lord and many times unto others to whom you have given your oaths. For this, you have no place among the honored dead. Your soul shall languish forever in the depths of Oblivion..."

* * *

Eirik awoke in a cold sweat. It was all a dream, all of it. Not all of it, for he was still bound hand and foot in the cell in Solitude - as he guessed it - and gagged, as well as cold, hungry and weary. His mind began to tell him that this would not be so: the legends concerning Sovngarde, namely the account of Rolf the Large, said that the god Tsun guarded the entrance to Sovngarde, not Talos who had not been born in the Merethic Era. He wanted to shake off the dream as nothing more than a troubled mind.

And yet what he had seen was true, those memories of Windhelm had not been fabricated by his mind. He had been ordered to take the Jagged Crown, but did not undertake that quest until he had discovered Windcaller's Horn had been stolen from Ustengrav. The letter said that he should go to Riverwood, and Korvanjund lay in that general direction. Even now he realized that he had been doing exactly as the apparition of Talos had said: he had been rejecting his purpose, not only to the people of Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, as the Dragonborn, but also to Ulfric Stormcloak. For better or for worse, he had sworn him his oath and would needs fulfill it.

Suddenly the bars clanged and the doors opened. The large jailer walked into the cell and threw the sack over Eirik's head.

"Am I to die today?" Eirik asked.

"Aye, that you will, rebel scum!" the jailer replied.

"Why cover my face?" Eirik asked. "May I at least face death with some dignity?"

Suddenly the prisoner struck Eirik across the face with his fist. "Oblivion take your 'dignity', milk-drinker! You can die in shame as you've lived, a death fitting for a rebel and a turncoat."

"There's no need for me to be covered," Eirik spoke. "It's not like I'm coming back."

Once again the jailer struck Eirik, this time on the back of his head, pushing him face down onto the filthy, straw-covered floor of the dungeon cell. "You deserve the most ignoble death imaginable, dying right alongside your arch-traitor Ulfric Stormcloak. But don't you worry, you and Ulfric will have plenty of time to bemoan your losses in Oblivion. The Empire will find him soon enough, wherever he chooses to hide, and then he'll face justice. Now get up with you!"

Eirik leaned up, then heard the sound of the shackles being removed from off his feet. He tried to stand up, but was weakened from a lengthy time in prison. The jailer shoved him forward and he fell down once again.

"If Stendarr gave me a choice for a suitable punishment for you traitors," the jailer continued. "It would be to have you immersed in freezing ice, and to have Molag Bal play with you like those Windhelm farmers play with their sheep and goats!"

Once more Eirik was thrown forward, hand still bound and face obscured. There was no stopping it, for he could not predict if a dragon would attack the city of Solitude, if that was indeed where he was being led. Once again, his fate was in the hands of the gods alone, and nothing else he could foresee would halt his death this time.

He was outside, for he could see light coming in through the cloth of his shroud, and could hear shouts and jeers and cries of joy. Ever and anon, spit would fly at him, or rocks or rotten food would hit his body and head. The mob around him was angry, as angry as those he had seen when he came first to Solitude, to meet with Malborn. As he could not defend himself or respond, he thought about what he was enduring. As much as he wished he could tear his bonds and smash some faces in, he knew that these people were not the arrogant Imperials of Cyrodiil, nor were they the god-killing Dunmer or the Altmer, these were Nords, just like him. And they hated him as much as the Altmeri hated all non-Altmer, or as much as the Dunmer hated the Nords and Argonians.

At last he was brought to a halt. There was a pounding heard and a voice spoke up.

"Citizens of Solitude," the speaker said. "We have here before you today a rebel of the worst sort. A murderer, a thief, a brigand, one of Ulfric's band, a Stormcloak!"

Boos came from the crowd, followed by more rotten missiles. Eirik sighed, but there was nothing he could do to prevent this.

"Let his death be a sign that injustice will not be tolerated!" the speaker said once more. "You are all servants of the Empire of Cyrodiil, and rebellion will be met with swift and merciless judgment. General Tullius has deemed to have this execution be made public as a warning to any other fool who might wish to do as this one. May he never enter the gates of Sovngarde, may his soul forever languish in Oblivion, and may he bring shame upon his ancestors and his descent for all time!"

Cheers now rose from those gathered about, and Eirik was suddenly pushed downward into a kneeling position. He would never see anything again, not the sun, nor the sky, nor the beautiful land of his fathers, nor his beloved Lioness...

"Murderers!" a voice suddenly shouted. "This man is the only true son of Skyrim! The rest of you are slaves, mindlessly following the Empire to your doom! Ulfric is our true king!"

At first there were shouts and cries at the one who had spoken, though Eirik could not see who it was, when suddenly he heard someone cry out, and then the one who had spoken was barking out orders. "Guards, bring that bastard up here!"

Suddenly, Eirik felt strong hands seize him and he was lifted off the ground and was now swaying about with a strong arm around his waist, and the whole of his body resting on what felt like a shoulder. He was swaying violently back and forth, but his head was dangling and he could see nothing of where he was going or who it was who had suddenly rescued him. He could, however, hear heavy breathing and grunting: obviously whatever the identity of his rescuer, he was running with all haste.

Then, with the same suddenness as he had been picked up and hoisted onto the strange rescuer's shoulders, Eirik was now falling, falling through the air. His heart skipped a beat, for he feared that his rescuer had thrown him off a high cliff to his death: there were high cliffs around Solitude and it would be certain death when he hit the ground. Suddenly his heart came to a halt as he splashed head-first into freezing cold water. His head was covered and his hands were bound, but now his feet were free. He thrashed about, trying to find his way to the surface before the cold, salty water filled his lungs. For what seemed like an eternity, he continued trying to reach the surface, but it seemed that he would not make it, no matter how hard he tried. Already he was choking on the breath he could not release, his mouth still bound, and his eyes and nostrils were stinging from the water rushing in, despite his eyes being tightly shut.

As he was thus floundering between life and death, he felt strong hands lift him up and carry him towards the surface. At last he could breathe, though through soaked burlap. He could not speak, for his mouth was still bound by the gag, nor could he hear as his ears were frozen numb from the cold water and thoroughly waterlogged. Suddenly he was thrown up onto something hard and wooden and his ears, just now draining, could hear voices crying out and the familiar rocking back and forth of a ship. Before he had a chance to catch his breath or make a move, he had been picked back up onto his feet and pulled below-deck. There was a torch nearby, but no more could Eirik discern.

Once he was thus onboard the ship and below deck, strong hands began removing his bindings while another removed his shroud and pulled the gag out of his mouth, leaving it to hang loosely at the bottom of his neck. He saw that he was in a ship indeed, below deck as he had surmised. Within moments of this, strong arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck and shoulders in an embrace and he felt a soft yet profound kiss upon his neck.

"My love," Mjoll said. "I feared you wouldn't make it."

"What is this?" Eirik asked.

"I think he can explain," she said, stepping back to show one standing in the doorway, looking in as Eirik was being unbound.

"Crixus," Eirik greeted, though his greeting was not all that cordial.

"Good to see you again," the Imperial replied with a smirk.

"What the hell is this?" Eirik asked again.

"A rescue mission, what else?" Crixus replied. "You should be on bended knee, thanking me for this."

"Thanking you?" Eirik retorted. "I ought to wipe that smug smile off your face with my fist!"

"If that's the thanks I get," Crixus stated. "I should have left you to the mercy of the headsmen. You know, Ahtar hates Stormcloaks almost as much as I do."

"What are you talking about?"

"I arranged for your rescue," Crixus said. "I just happened to be returning here from Solstheim when I heard of your capture. For...certain reasons, I facilitated your escape. It would have been release, but General Tullius insisted that you be executed."

"For that?" Eirik asked. "Oh, you're right proud of yourself, aren't you, traitor? Save me from the axe only to kill me in my sleep, your Thalmor masters will be very pleased, wouldn't they?"

At this, Crixus laughed. "I assume you've met Thelgil, the High Justicar. He's been sent to Skyrim to ensure that Elenwen does her duty. He's taken quite an interest in killing you, and making a grand conquest of your woman and your huscarl, and any other women who follow you."

"Ugh, disgusting," Mjoll replied.

"No one asked your opinion, Lioness," Crixus retorted.

"Is that all he wants?" Eirik asked. "To kill me? Half of Skyrim wants to kill me."

"True, but there's more to it than that," Crixus said. "I will have to tell you the rest, but for now, you should probably get dressed."

"All of my things were taken when I was arrested." Eirik said.

"Look in that chest over there," Crixus said, pointing to a chest lying on the ground. "I was able to sneak your belongings and your Lioness out while all of Solitude were watching your execution. Take your rest, you're going to need it when we reach Solstheim."

* * *

**(AN: Wow, not that many reviews. I would like to hear some of what you have to say. Oh, and Thelgil will become important later on, especially after the treaty is signed.)**


	69. The Gardener of Men

**(AN: Okay, while this has obviously caused quite a stir, two particular sub-plots are coming to a landmark point. The reason I brought up Crixus into this story is his relevance to what will happen in either this chapter or the next, while the other reason being, well, if Alduin is the World-Eater, how come his dragons _only_ spend time terrorizing Skyrim when they could easily fly over the mountains to Cyrodiil, Morrowind, Hammerfell, etc. and cause more chaos as well?)**

**(Well, I do wish that my reviewers were more thorough. As much as I like "good chapter" as the next author, some critical analysis and objectivity is welcome as well. It would make for better author's notes because then I'd actually have responses to reply to, rather than just leaving my thoughts on the war.)  
**

**(So let me just add that Elisif is a puppet. Her own advisers have no faith in her and undermine her authority, and we all know who _really_ wears the pants in Solitude [his name is Tullius!]. And in the game [not in this story, because she hasn't appeared yet] she is the weakest female character. At first she's all "Ulfric murdered my husband!" and then if Ulfric wins the war, she just meekly bows and is all "Whatever you say, High King Stormcloak.")**

* * *

**The Gardener of Men**

Eirik was both surprised and a little disturbed that Crixus had managed this escape, as well as liberating all of his things from the dungeon in Solitude. To that end, he spent most of his time below deck, away from the others. When at last he felt that he was ready, he climbed up to the main deck. What he saw was the crew of a pirate ship at sea. Its sails were black with a red wolf emblazoned upon the wide cloth. The crew were of mixed race: many of them were either Redguards or Imperials, none of them below the age of thirty-seven. Few of the crew were also gray-skinned Dunmer, who were the youngest members of the group. One, Eirik saw, was a large Orc, whom he recognized from the Bee and Barb in Riften.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Crixus asked. "The Red Dog, the ship of my collaborator." He turned about and pointed to the stern, at whose wheel stood the captain. "There he is, faithful Shaddar. Now come, we have much to discuss."

Eirik followed Crixus below deck, to a small room with a few barrels instead of stools or chairs. Crixus closed the door behind them, then climbed on top of one of the barrels and offered the other to Eirik.

"I do have questions," Eirik began. "Before we begin. Why did you choose to rescue me? Whatever happened to your statement that you couldn't help me under the nose of your superiors?"

"Thelgil is not my superior," Crixus replied. "I serve the Emperor, just like every loyal son of the Empire. Like you half-wit Nords should be doing, instead of causing chaos. You know, that's the _real_ reason he's here."

"Who?"

"Thelgil!" Crixus retorted. "Did you honestly think he came all the way from the Sommerset Isles to kill you and fuck your women? Heh, no."

"Just what are you getting at?"

"There's a reason the Thalmor call the Great War the 'first' war with the Empire," Crixus began. "They're coming back for more."

"And how do you think this is news to me?" Eirik asked.

"Well, then maybe _this_ will be news," Crixus added. "When I say that the Thalmor support your Ulfric's little war with the Empire?" He chuckled as disbelief and shock passed over Eirik's face.

"No, that's-that's impossible," Eirik replied. "Ulfric has no love for the Thalmor."

"Obviously," Crixus continued. "But they're using him and you idiot Nords just the same."

"Why?"

"Because a divided Empire is easier to destroy than a unified one," Crixus replied. "Remember what happened the last time they fought us? We slaughtered their armies in Cyrodiil, and would have kept on fighting, despite our many losses, had the Empire not wisely called a truce. Now the Thalmor watch from the shadows as your Ulfric Storm-cunt wages his little war with the Empire. To them, victory for either side is not an option. They want chaos in Tamriel for their 'second war' to be an easy conquest."

Eirik did not reply at first. Had Crixus said these words three months ago, he would have dismissed him as a fool and another haughty Imperial. But he had read those papers he found in the Thalmor Embassy, as well as _The Bear of Markarth_, and things were now different. He had seen those exact same words before, almost exactly, from one other source.

"You know, don't you?" Crixus asked. "I can tell by that dumbfounded look on your face."

"What if I do?" he asked. "What's that to you?"

"Maybe you'll see the light and join the winning side," Crixus replied.

"Never," Eirik retorted. "I will not have the traditions of my people suppressed for a moment of meaningless peace with an enemy who would soon see us all dead."

"Oh, again with Tiber-fucking-Septim," Crixus groaned.

"If what you say is true," Eirik said. "What has the Empire done about this? They have had twenty-five years since the war ended to rebuild their strength, and only a few months of that has been interrupted by our war."

"Can you really be that stupid?" Crixus asked.

"Why have they not been preparing for this upcoming war?"

"They've had to fight your fucking war!"

"Face it," Eirik retorted. "The Empire is losing. They've been losing since the Oblivion Crisis, when they lost the last scion of Talos' lineage."

"That's why the Empire can't afford another loss," Crixus said. "Skyrim must know its proper place, bend over and take it like a man, for the good of the Empire."

"Why must we continue to placate these yellow-faced bastards any longer?" Eirik asked. "And what of you? I've heard that you've been helping Thelgil just the same, despite all of your words!"

At this, Crixus laughed. "Oh, my stupid Nordic friend, that's the entire point." He placed his hand on Eirik's shoulder, who brushed it off. "Don't you see? Emperor Mede was not as foolish as your Ulfric Stormcloak, and therefore he would not go openly to war with the Dominion. We have waited and planned in secret for our return, but we must do so in _secret!_ We cannot announce to the Thalmor all of our intentions, they'd kill us in our sleep."

"Why are you telling me any of this in the first place?" Eirik asked. "Aren't you the one who despises Nords and thinks we should have all drowned in the Sea of Ghosts when Ysgramor came to this land?"

"Creative, but unfortunately, that's not the case," Crixus said. "Unlike you, terrorizing baby Argonians and slaughtering Dunmer, I actually do some good in Tamriel, something of real worth."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"Aside from rescuing your ungrateful ass, quite a bit, actually," Crixus retorted. He leaned back, a disgruntled look on his face as he continued speaking. "While you were busy doing what I just said, I was busy on the isle of Solstheim, studying those black books we found in the Temple of Miraak."

Eirik halted when he heard that name, remembering once more the vivid and sickening sensation of cold, slimy tendrils crawling through his skull. He also saw once again the hated face of the one who had been stealing the souls of the dragons he had slain ever since his trip to Solstheim. The last thing he wanted was to be forced into submission to Miraak once again.

"I think I've learned a way we can face him," Crixus said. "But..." He paused once again, sighing heavily. Eirik thought he saw hesitance in Crixus' voice, which was highly opposite to his usual arrogance and bravado.

"But?" Eirik asked.

"I've faced Miraak on my own," Crixus began, gritting his teeth angrily. "He used a kind of Thu'um, one that I've never seen or heard of before. It..."

"Robbed you of your will?" Eirik asked. "Made you to grovel at his feet as a slave?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus retorted. "Yes, I did experience..." He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "...a loss of control over my body. It will not happen again. That's why I went looking for you."

Eirik suddenly burst forth into laughter. "You mean you needed me? You failed at something and you actually _need_ somebody else?"

"I have no qualms about sending you back to the headsman," Crixus replied with a sneer.

"I still cannot get over the fact that you actually found yourself faced against an enemy you could not merely insult to death," Eirik laughed. "That you actually needed someone other than yourself to solve a problem for you."

"I don't need anyone," Crixus replied. "And from what I can see, you wouldn't be very useful if I sent you into a melee against Miraak." He seized Eirik's right hand and held it aloft. Though it was bound, Eirik saw that the hole was now covered in a sickly shade of flaky reddish-black skin. With a look of disgust, he threw Eirik's hand back at him.

"You're bait, that's what you are," Crixus continued. "You're a Nord, he's a Nord. He'll think you've come to face him because you're big and threatening, so while he's dominating you, I'll come up behind him and stick a knife in his back."

"The 'honorable' way of the Empire," Eirik mocked.

"Learned from Tiber Septim himself," Crixus retorted.

Eirik sighed, then looked at his hand and saw Crixus covering his mouth with a kerchief in disgust. He covered his hand back up and walked out of the room, still surprised at Crixus' revelations. Had he _really_ tried to fight Miraak and failed? They were now going back to the land of ash and shadow, or at least the island north of said land, but he would not be able to fight Miraak on fair terms. As much as Crixus wanted to bring him along to serve as a distraction, he wanted to take down Miraak himself.

* * *

By the time they arrived in Raven Rock, it was the sixteenth day of Sun's Dusk according to the Imperial calendar. Eirik, with his hand wrapped in bandages, waited on the Red Dog while Crixus secured their ship's anchorage. With him was Mjoll, who had spent much of her time below deck, praying to the gods and ancestors and keeping to herself. Now, however, she wanted to speak with him.

"I'm sorry I've been so secretive," Mjoll said. "There have been some things on my mind since Solitude, and I needed some time alone."

"What things?" Eirik asked.

Mjoll sighed. "Do you remember anything of what happened after we were captured?" Eirik shook his head. "Well, I do. I was blind-folded, but only insomuch as to not reveal the way out of the cell I was in. They never let me see you or even know if you were captured, or held nearby. I didn't expect them to, at least not until they brought me before the High Justicar."

"Who?" Eirik asked.

"The one Crixus named as Thelgil," she continued. "He...he said terrible things about you. He tried to turn me against you. Said you were a murderer, a raping scum, a thief, and other things that were worse."

"You didn't believe him, did you?" Eirik asked.

"That's the problem," Mjoll replied. "He gave evidence - guard reports, bounties, sworn witnesses - from Bruma concerning your actions in the past three years." She turned away, sighed, then turned back. What Eirik saw made his heart break within his chest: Mjoll's amber eyes were welling up with tears in broad daylight (well, as bright and broad as the overcast and ashen-clad days of Morrowind could ever be).

"I need to know what you did in Bruma," she said. "No, you are my husband: I _deserve_ to know!" Her voice was not raised, only emphatic, neither angry nor sad, only purposeful. She did not bawl nor whine, though her voice did creak as she spoke, but she spoke with the certainty that told Eirik that she would not be denied.

"I know," Eirik replied grimly, for a moment avoiding eye contact. "You do deserve to know everything." He turned his face to her. "But I can't. Not now. There are some on this ship who would profit much from what I would say, and many who would die if that information got out." He sighed. "I know that is not the answer you want, but if my word holds any weight, whether with the people of Skyrim or Solstheim or with you, then I promise that when we are once again beyond the ears of the Thalmor or the servants of the Empire, I will divulge all that I know concerning...my time in Bruma."

Mjoll bit her lower lip, then wiped her eyes. "You're right, that's not the answer I wanted. Gods, you keep so many secrets and say things but do the opposite, I know not whether to believe what has been told me or no..." Eirik sighed, remembering an unpleasant awakening in the midst of the snows of Winterhold after drinking with that strange Breton Sam Guevenne. "But I understand the problems you face, as one of the Stormcloaks, and so will defer until such time as you have stated."

She walked away, leaving Eirik feeling empty and rotten, as though everything he had done up until now had been a terrible betrayal of the trust and love he had for Mjoll.

Moments later, Crixus returned, informing them that they had permission to disembark. Mjoll, who was still smarting from being denied the revelations she deserved, remained on the ship with the rest of the crew. Eirik followed Crixus off the Red Dog and onto the ash-clogged streets of Raven Rock.

"Don't look so grim," Crixus snickered. "Solstheim's not that bad, only a right sight colder than Morrowind."

"It's not the cold that worries me," Eirik replied.

"Then it's being away from your wife's fat t*ts, isn't it?" Crixus laughed. "Well, you remember the last time we were brought before Miraak. No one else can come with us, just the two of us."

"What you've always wanted, eh?" Eirik asked.

"Just shut up or I'll consider leaving you behind," Crixus retorted.

* * *

They walked through the dark, ashy fields of south-eastern Solstheim for an eternity. The Dunmer guards, clad from head-to-toe in golden-bronze bone-mold armor, courtesy of House Redoran, to whom the guards belonged and one of the few ruling Houses of Morrowind still left standing after the eruption of the Red Mountain, paid them little heed. Beyond the Bulwark, Crixus led Eirik away from the ash-spawn, being of man-size that spawned out of the ash.

"We'll have plenty of time," he said. "Dealing with them once we're done at the Skaal village. Besides, it's not wise to engage them head-on. I've heard even Marcurio can't do much good against them."

For a long while they walked on in silence, with Crixus leading Eirik out of the way of any ash-spawn they found. Up they went on the side of the giant mountain that sat in the center of the island, up the dangerously steep ash-slopes. After a time, Crixus came to a halt as he got his bearings. While they were standing there, Eirik saw a group of things sticking out of the ash that looked human-like. Without asking, he walked towards them and brushed away the ash from off them. He gave a cry and stepped back, almost sliding down the ashen hill as he saw what lay beneath the ash. They were not ash-spawn, but Nords, frozen and encased in ash.

"Thirsk," Crixus said. "Stupid Nords, just like the rest of them." He cast his eyes at Eirik, who was struggling to pull himself up out of the ash.

"Why do you have to do this?" Eirik asked. "I came to help, yet you won't cease your insults."

"They're merited, every one of them," Crixus said. "Besides, they're not insults if they're true."

"Shall I say the same about the Dunmer?" Eirik retorted.

"Ah, yes, the Dunmer," Crixus smiled. "Perfect example of what fickle, fair-weather friends you Nords are! 'Honor' and 'sons of Skyrim' be damned!"

"Do you even know of this situation?" Eirik asked. "The Dunmer have been living in Skyrim for almost two hundred years. The Nords have grown tired of these people living in our cities, taking our jobs, but being exempt from paying the taxes we all pay and calling Skyrim 'their home' while refusing to take sides in the war, either for or against the Empire."

"Then why doesn't your precious Ulfric Stormcloak use the Voice to shout all the Dunmer into the sea?" Crixus replied. "You need to get your head out of your arse and listen to reason! Your little war is destroying the Empire..."

"It's been twenty-five years since the end of the war," Eirik said. "Why hasn't the Empire been rebuilding its strength?"

"Because of your Ulfric Stormcloak..."

"We both know the Civil War began this year only, yet the Empire has had ample amount of time to rebuild their strength."

"Fuck you!" Crixus retorted.

"You know this to be true!" Eirik retorted. "Yet you insist on remaining on-board a sinking ship!"

"Listen, I don't need anyone's help, certainly not a snow-back like you," Crixus said, turning around. "I only brought you along to serve as bait. I can kill Miraak all on my own!"

"What the fuck did you call me?" Eirik asked.

"You deaf?" Crixus taunted.

"You think you're better than me?"

"I _know_ I'm better than you!"

"Fuck off, then!" Eirik said. "I couldn't give a shit about you or your precious Empire. Despite what you may believe, I want to see Miraak slain as well. I will go to the Skaal village and discover the way to defeat him myself."

"Good luck with that," Crixus said with a smile. "You won't get very far. Only I have the means with which to enter the realm of the daedric prince Hermaeus Mora." At this, Crixus removed from beneath his cloak something large and heavy and held it out in his hands. It was one of the Black Books they had found in the Temple of Miraak. But, upon a closer look of the cover, he saw something familiar...

"Where did you get that?" Eirik asked.

"The chest in your bedroom in Breezehome," Crixus replied. "I have friends in the Thieves Guild, and did you really think they were confined only to Riften?"

A look of rage engulfed Eirik's whole face. "What else have you stolen?"

"Me?" Crixus laughed. "Whatever makes you think I would step foot into your filthy barn? As I told you, I have friends. They had no qualms about the reeking shit-holes of Nords, and so _they_ entered your house. I gave them instructions not to take everything, though I see now that was a mistake. I should have had them take everything!"

Eirik flexed his right hand, but bite his lip as he could feel pain rising up through his palm. Crixus said nothing, but turned about and made on his way north-westward. Without another word, Eirik ran after him.

* * *

By and by, they arrived at the Skaal village. It was late in the day, with the sun hidden behind the ash-cloud, wafting up from Morrowind by a strong north wind. There were few people out and about the village, most of them preparing for the long cold night ahead. They approached first the old man they had met on their first journey here, he who was father to Frea the shaman. Eirik could not, for love of money or anything else, recall to his mind this old man's name. He was sitting by himself in front of one of the wooden houses, seemingly in deep meditation.

"Storn!" Crixus called out.

The old man stirred from his seat and rose to meet the two Dragonborns who approached him. He removed his heavy fur-lined hood and spoke to Crixus first. "Well met. What news do you bring from the outside?"

"You remember when we were last here," Crixus said.

"Aye," Storn replied. "You had run afoul of Miraak in the Temple, then you went about cleansing the Earth Stones. And a great boon it has been for my people, but one yet remains tainted..."

"Listen, old man, I know how to defeat him," Crixus continued.

"You do?" Storn asked. "How did you come by this knowledge?"

"I spoke to Hermaeus Mora."

"Ah, old Herma-Mora," Storn mused, half to himself. "The Demon of Knowledge, ever the enemy of the Skaal."

"Why?" Eirik asked.

"It is in his nature to hoard secrets," Storn replied. "It is most unnatural. The children of the All-Maker eat until they are full and take no more, and what they do take is for their food and to protect themselves from the cold. Such is the way of nature. But Herma-Mora defies nature. He hoards knowledge and secrets, yet their value is of no consequence to him."

"He told me that you had something," Crixus said. "Something that he wanted, something that, if I gave it to him, he would give me the knowledge to defeat Miraak."

"I am afraid that cannot be done," Storn said, shaking his head.

"Then I'll kill you and take it anyway," Crixus retorted, reaching for a dagger on his belt.

"My death will mean nothing," Storn stated. "The secret will die with me and your master will curse you for your failure."

"What secret?" Eirik asked.

"Ancient lore," Storn cryptically said. "Handed down through the line of the shaman since the All-Maker first created Solstheim."

"Why would Hermaeus Mora want your secrets?" Eirik asked.

"Does it matter?" Crixus retorted, then turned back to Storn. "Give it to me now!"

"Not for any offering or threats you may have within you," Storn replied stubbornly. He then sighed and turned to Eirik. "As I have said, Herma-Mora is a hoarder of secrets. The fact that the Skaal have kept something from him for so long has wounded his pride and makes him want our secret all the more."

"Why couldn't you just give the secret over?" Eirik asked. "It would only be for this one purpose."

"That is the purpose of the Shaman of the Skaal," Storn said. "To guard the secret of the Skaal from Herma-Mora." He held up his hand as he saw Crixus reaching for his dagger. "But...the Skaal have foretold of a time when we must at last surrender our secret." He let down his hands with a weary sigh. "So this great task falls to me, then."

"Smart man," Crixus said, sheathing his dagger.

"You could not have withstood against all of us," Storn replied, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. "Nevertheless, there is no need to resort to violence. What must I do?"

"Read the black book we found in Miraak's temple," Crixus said producing the book.

"If I am wrong," Eirik heard Storn mutter. "May the ancestors forgive me." He then held out his hands. "Give me the book. I will ensure that Herma-Mora keeps his part of the bargain."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Eirik said as Crixus handed Storn the book.

"So do I," Storn replied, as he placed the huge book on the snow. At that moment, Frea ran towards where her father and the Dragonborns stood, with concern in her eyes.

"Father!" she cried out. "You must not do this!"

"Frea, please..."

"That book is evil!" she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the black book. "I was there when they opened it. I could feel the very stones beneath our feet crying out in protest. That book goes against nature, against everything you have taught us...that you have taught me!"

"I must do this," he continued. "It is the only way to free Solstheim forever from Miraak's shadow."

"I don't want to lose you, father," she whispered. "I am not yet ready to be shaman of our people."

Storn smiled, then placed his gnarled hand on her cheek. "Your humility is proof that you are ready. I am an old man, child. You know, as do I and the rest of the Skaal, that there comes a time when everything must change. Nothing that lives remains the same forever."

"You're talking about your life!" Eirik interjected.

"No, but my destiny," Storn replied. "As laid out before me by the All-Maker."

"But you know the other Earth-Stones haven't been cleansed," Frea said. "If you read that, you will disappear, like they did. You will even be captured by Miraak, made into his slave, like the others."

"Enough have been cleansed, child," Storn said. "It may yet be enough." Frea grimly bowed her head and started to depart, but Storn reached out and touched her arm. "Please, stay."

"Yes, father," she said, kneeling at his side.

"Do not fear for me, my child," Storn said, shaking his old gray head. "I'm ready for whatever their foul master has in store for me." He turned back to Eirik and Crixus and began to read the book. Eirik did not like being called a servant of Hermaeus Mora. But for the moment, he listened instead to the words of the book which Storn was reading. His old voice was soft as he read at first, but slowly began to grow and intensify. Eirik could feel the hairs on his arm rise as Storn's old voice rose and rose as he read and read.

Suddenly, there was a bright green light coming from the book, lighting up the dark, late-afternoon sky. Black tendrils, like the arms of the netches of Morrowind and Solstheim, reached out of the book and passed through Storn's body. He screamed and cried out, as the tendrils lifted him off the ground as the book itself began to rise up off the ground, now levitating two feet above the snow. A dark cloud appeared to hover just above the book, though Eirik could see nothing.

"Father!" Frea called out.

"Come no closer!" a voice cried out from Storn's lips, though it was not the voice of Storn. It sounded like his voice, yet it was strange and distorted, coming as though out of a great depth, hollow and empty. "His life is in my hands and I will slay him if you interfere."

"Outsiders, do something!" Frea shouted.

"At last," the voice said. "The secret of the Skaal. The voice of the wind, earth and water."

"Liar!" the voice of Storn shouted, straining against some great power, though nothing could be seen other than the tendrils. "I...agh! Not for...you! I won't..."

"Foolish mortal," the voice replied. "All things serve the daedra, willing or no." There was suddenly heard a sickening twist, and they watched in horror as Storn's neck bulged and convulsed, twisted, then suddenly was snapped. The tendrils receded back into the book, but the dark cloud hovered over the floating book yet. Eirik suddenly became aware that they were being looked at, though he could see no eye from out of the cloud.

"He speaks!" Crixus shouted, but his voice also was like that of Storn, but harsher and more venomous, like the growl of a draugr or the roar of a Falmer in the darkness. "He...delivered what I requested. In return...I keep my promise, as...befits a Prince of Oblivion. I give you the Word of Power..._both_ of you! Agh! Dammit, lord! Why must you give h...challenge Miraak. Agh! ...will be...worthy opponent...or...successor!"

Crixus collapsed, and immediately the book fell and the dark cloud disappeared. Frea ran over to Storn's body and lifted him up in her arms. She was quiet for a moment, as the other Skaal began to gather around her and bow their heads in respect to their fallen leader. Eirik heard her cry out her father's name, then was silent once again. He walked over to her, as though he would comfort her. But when she looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears and burning with anger, he could see that she wanted no comfort.

"Go," she said, gritting her teeth. "Don't let my father's sacrifice be for nothing! Kill Miraak. Do not fail!"

Eirik nodded, then walked over to Crixus, who had now risen but was rubbing his head.

"Are you ready?" Eirik asked.

"Thought you'd never ask," Crixus returned, then made his way to the fallen book. He looked back at Eirik. "You remember how we went there the first time?"

"Aye."

"Then get your ass over here."

Eirik made his way to Crixus' side and scanned the page until he found where Crixus was pointing to. Then, as they had done in the temple those many months ago, they began to read the words together.

"'_The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of though._ _The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First..._'"

Then they were swallowed by darkness and wrapping tendrils, feeling and probing through their heads and eyes. Eirik feared that something had changed and the daedric prince would destroy him as he had destroyed Storn. But his mind then went dumb and he sank at last into the on-set of darkness.

* * *

**(AN: While most of the Skyrim players love the daedric quests, etc., I found them to be rather disturbing. I hope I captured some of that with Hermaeus Mora's appearance here. My brother thinks his slow, drawn-out voice from _Dragonborn_ isn't proper, so I settled with something a little more freaky, a la _The Fourth Kind_ or _The Exorcist_. Because, unlike the rest of you, daedra freak me out. They are like the One Ring, which robs the bearer of their free will by saying that, no matter what, they serve them and there is no way out of their bondage. So, obviously, I make that connection.)**

**(Also, as through my reading of _The Hero With a Thousand Faces_, I've found a way to "cheat" through the mono-myth and yet, strangely, still follow through with it. The hero goes into the realm of night [whether Apocrypha, the Soul Cairn or Sovngarde], makes his triumphant victory, brings back the boon with which to bless the world and is given the Earth personified in the perfect woman. I wonder if anyone can divine what I'm getting at here...hmm)**


	70. At the Summit of Apocrypha

**(AN: Wow, seventy chapters and almost 300,000 words! I don't think I could ever top this story!)**

**(Hmm, what would you do, if you were trapped in a world that was as crazy as Apocrypha? Well, it would be hell just on your own. But what would you do if you had someone to talk to, even an enemy? That was what most of the dialogue in this chapter is, just the two of them trying to stay sane in an insane part of Oblivion. The joke that Crixus said is based off of a song from _Týr_'s upcoming album.)**

**(Thank you, _le fou_, for your dedicated reviews. There's not really anything that I've seen in the lore about what's been going on in Cyrodiil since the War, though Lokir did say that the Empire was "nice and lazy" before the Stormcloaks came along. Also, considering that there are Thalmor agents crawling all over Skyrim, especially in Winterhold, a place where any magical discovery might be made that could tip the balance of the future war in favor of either the Empire or [possibly] the Kingdom of Skyrim, I guess that the Dominion have been spying on the Empire as well, making sure they aren't regaining power. But what bugs me is that the Empire has been allowing this, especially in the past twenty-four years prior to the outbreak of the Civil War.)  
**

**(As for Crixus' outburst, like Eirik, he's set in his beliefs. And, like with most people who are dead-set in their beliefs, they are more able to see the faults in other people than in themselves or in those they support. I would say that he uses the excuse that Elisif is, apart from being a Nord, young and inexperienced [to which he blames Ulfric], and Tullius, being Cyrodilian, obviously knows what's best for Skyrim. Besides, there may be more than just respect between Crixus and Elisif [but I can say no more right now]. I swear it gets better, though.)**

* * *

**At the Summit of Apocrypha**

When Eirik awoke, he found himself in a dark place, eerily lit by a distant glowing of green light. Nearby he saw Crixus, but, strangely enough, the land he saw around him was different. It was not the place he had appeared when he first encountered Miraak, in fact, it looked nothing like that place. It was dark and twisted, smelling of old books and wet, fishy rot.

"Where are we?" Eirik asked.

"Apocrypha," Crixus said. "The realm of Hermaeus Mora. His plane of Oblivion."

"You seem to know quite a bit about daedra," Eirik retorted.

"I worship them nine times a month," Crixus said with a cocky smirk. "Every Nord I kill I do so in the name of Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon!" He laughed. "I have been here, what do you think? There's so many books here, the libraries in the Imperial City could never possibly hold them all! And time means nothing here, so I spent a good deal of time reading some of the books I could find. Besides, that Dunmer wizard Neloth has been of help to me on the other side."

"The other side?" Eirik asked.

"Just go ahead," Crixus pointed. "There should be something here, a book, that will allow us to transcend to the next plane."

"The next what?"

"Just go first," Crixus groaned. "I'll cover your rear."

With a groan, Eirik walked forward, wary of the ground around him. He had a distinct sense, with each step he took forward, that the ground on which he stood was not entirely stable. He could feel the ground moving beneath his feet, constantly shifting and moving. At last he reached the end of the hall, where there was a large book laying on a table.

"Wait," he spoke up. "You said you wanted a book. Well, here's one."

"These walls are made of books," Crixus said. "Books stacked on top of books in great spiraling book-cases. So, for the love of whatever you Nords hold sacred, _be_ specific!"

"It's large," Eirik said. "And it feels like the same book I found in the temple. Wait...there's an engraving on the cover. Yes, the face with the many tendrils. This is it."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Read it!"

Eirik pulled open the pages and saw that there were no words. Or at least, the words that were present were not such as he could read. They moved across the pages, up and down, and sometimes backwards so that what they held could not be read. But there was suddenly a bright green light that enveloped them both and when it faded, they were standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs made of books.

"I don't like this," Crixus said. "Where are the others?"

"What others?" Eirik asked.

"You remember the others," he said. "Those strange things with the long tendrils. Seekers they're called. And the giant ones, the fishy ones, the Lurkers. I encountered many of them in my last trip here. There should be dozens of them here, but I haven't seen even one!"

"Maybe we've been lucky," Eirik commented.

"Don't be an idiot," Crixus replied. "Miraak knows we're here, and he'll send the captured daedra after us, eventually. Keep your eyes out and don't hesitate to use your 'power' against them."

"Why don't you?" Eirik asked. "You have that power, or else you wouldn't be here."

"I honestly couldn't give a damn about that ridiculous Nord fairy tale about Tongues and dragons," Crixus said. "I don't need some coward's crutch to kill my enemies."

"Fairy tale?" Eirik asked. "Is that what you think of our traditions?"

"_Your_ traditions," Crixus retorted.

"Sovngarde is more than tradition! It was proven to be true!"

"Oh, please!" Crixus scoffed. "Psychics can't be trusted. Who's to say Felga Four-Fingers - a Nord, by her name - wasn't hitting the skooma a little too hard? I'd sooner bow down before Talos than trust anything in that hag's book. And the person she mentioned, Rolf the Large, another idiotic Nord just like you and your Lioness. He died in shame and defeat, realizing that your afterlife was a lie, just a story they tell you ignorant people so they'll risk their lives in battle."

"And what do you say?" Eirik asked. "Where do men go after they die?"

"Personally?" Crixus asked. "I think Aetherius is a load of horse-shit."

"Then the sum of your life," Eirik said. "Will be nothing more than what you have right now."

"Oh, look at the brain on this Nord here!" Crixus laughed. "You're starting to sound like one of these Winterhold students, or, lords of Oblivion forbid, someone from the Arcane University!" His laughter subsided. "What, do you think to scare me with your talk? I'm more than happy with my life right now, I don't need any superstitious folly to make me feel better about my short-comings."

"This world!" Eirik exclaimed. "It's proof that at least the daedra exist, yet you are still defiant!"

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "I can acknowledge the daedra exist, but I don't have to believe the Divines exist, or that they are what people say they are!"

"You think you have an answer for everything, don't you?" Eirik asked.

"No, I _know_ I do!" Crixus smiled.

They walked on in silence, up the stairs of books, until they came to a place where there stood a large wall of books which seemed immovable. Before this stood an altar, such as the ones necromancers in Skyrim would use for their sacrifices. Upon said altar there sat a book, whose title bore the oddest inscription: _On Apocrypha: Boneless Limbs_. To their surprise, the wall of books began to buckle and distort, until there appeared a stair-way of books leading up onto some level which they had not seen before. Warily they walked upward, with Eirik in the lead. Looking back, he saw Crixus had his knife in hand but had few other weapons.

"You go in unarmed?" he asked.

"I'm armed enough," Crixus said. "Even without a weapon, or that precious Thu'um, I'm still more dangerous than anyone who's ever had the displeasure of your company."

At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Crixus quickly made his way to the door and pushed it open. There, lying upon a shelf, was another large book. This one he opened and read. Eirik looked over, but immediately the greenish light engulfed both of them, and they were once again transported. When the light faded, they found themselves in what looked like a tunnel made of the spiraling book-cases. It moved even as they walked, leaving their minds swirling and their heads aching. Crixus, who was at the rear, threw his hood over his head.

"I've heard this is what the Shivering Isles look like," Crixus said as they walked through the mesmerizing tunnel. "But then again, those stories are such incoherent drivel, I'd probably find more sense in old Heimskr's sermons about Talos. I've heard he holds private cults in his house."

"They can't be so private if you know about them," Eirik retorted.

"I only know because I had to go in there once," he said.

"Why?"

"Call it a favor for a friend," Crixus said. "I had to plant evidence in his house, get him tossed into Dragonsreach dungeon. He got out, of course: 'by the hand of Talos', as he tells everyone. I personally think he bribed the guards."

They were silent for a while, then Crixus chuckled.

"What is it this time?" he asked.

"Marcurio told me you ran afoul of a daedric prince," Crixus said.

"What?" Eirik asked, incredulously.

"He described him as a Breton named Sam Guevenne." Crixus began. "Hah, the daedric lord Sanguine, more like. He also said you lot had quite a bit of fun."

"And it nearly cost me," Eirik said.

"You worry too much," Crixus said. "From what I hear, you got off rather easily. Not only did your mare forgive you, she married your unworthy arse. Can you believe that?"

"As you said, we ran afoul of a daedric prince," Eirik said.

"But why did you only settle for _one_?" Crixus asked. "Fuck, Marcurio said he woke up with at least three lying around him! That wizard knows how to have a good time!"

"I'm not proud of what I did that night," Eirik replied.

"Yeah, I heard you punched Maven Black-Briar in the face," Crixus said. "She wanted me to kill you for it." Crixus chuckled. "But what happens in Apocrypha stays in Apocrypha, eh? Maven might have connections, but she has no eyes here." He snorted. "Still, I wish I would have been there. It sounds like you had the best time ever! Ha! But, knowing these daedric lords, wouldn't it have been a lark, as that little Bosmer whore was riding your cock, if she suddenly turned into a big fat mare?"

"That's not funny!" Eirik retorted.

"Yes it is!" Crixus laughed. He then paused. "What, have you and your lioness not consummated your marriage?"

"Nay," Eirik sighed.

"Not that that would be much of a conquest," Crixus said. "It's a pity you haven't had your way with her." He chuckled again. "It _would_ be like riding a mare with her, though."

"That will be enough, now!" Eirik retorted.

"What? I'm just making light of our situation!"

"At my wife's expense!"

"Shh!" Crixus shushed.

"No, I won't! You need to learn some resp..."

But Crixus had already thrown his hand over Eirik's mouth and pushed him up against a large stack of books which formed part of the wall. Just beyond, one of the hideous, floating things - the Seekers - came their way, hovering a few inches above the floor. Without warning, Crixus suddenly shoved Eirik towards one of them. Immediately, he felt something like lightning that smelled like rotten fish hit him in the stomach and send him crashing against a wall of books. But no sooner had that happened but he was back up on his feet, his seax in his left hand. He dove at the floating thing and drove his knife into the flesh of the large floating daedra. It sank in with a sickening squelch, and his hand was coated in a fluid that was like water but thick and slightly opaque with a dark greenish haze. It let out a low, disgusting groan and then collapsed onto the floor. Eirik picked himself up, wiping the slime off his hands.

"Not bad," Crixus said. "And that with one hand and without your precious Thu'um. Now stay close and keep quiet, there's bound to be more of them."

* * *

Into the murky depths of Apocrypha walked the last Dragonborns, destiny urging them ever onward. They faced no few amount of Seekers along this plane before they at last found the next black book. Upon reading it, they passed on into another level and on they went, facing more and more Seekers. They found a third book, and then entered a long and winding tunnel that turned and shifted as they walked along it. At its end, they encountered more Seekers and even a Lurker, but Crixus' tactic of sending in Eirik first and coming up behind them seemed to be working. At last, they had found another black book and passed on into a long tunnel that seemed to be rather empty.

At its termination, they found themselves in a wide hall with a domed roof and four walkways extending from a platform that ringed the outer edge of the room. Below their feet was the black slime-like substance which served as water in this strange world. In the center, where the four walkways met, there was something emanating a beam of emerald light. As they entered the large domed room, they saw the outside platform had four pedestals sitting on their edges. These all were empty, but as they approached the nearest one, Eirik felt something engraved upon its surface.

"Look at this," he said. "It looks like...an eye."

"Do you remember those books?" Crixus asked. "Only one was like the Black Book, the rest had different symbols engraved upon them."

"Should we place the books upon these pedestals?" Eirik asked.

"I don't see why we should," Crixus commented. "But, there's no other way forward, so I don't see why not either. Here, hand me a book."

Eirik handed the large black book entitled _On Apocrypha: Gnashing Blades_ while he reached for one and began feeling the cover. There was precious little light in this area, which meant that feeling was the only viable option until they found themselves at the summit. When his fingers enclosed upon the book whose engraving was also an eye, he placed it upon the pedestal, then picked up the remaining two and went on his way. At the next pedestal, the markings was that of the many tendrils. Easily recognizable, he removed _On Apocrypha: Boneless Limbs_ and placed it upon the pedestal. Now, with only _Delving Pincers_ left, there was no doubt on which pedestal this book was destined. Setting off into a run, he came to the last empty pedestal and placed the book upon it.

"That does it!" Crixus shouted out from the other end. In the center, they saw the tendril-like pillar had retracted, revealing another pedestal within. Both Crixus and Eirik swiftly made their way to the center and saw another black book waiting for them. They opened it and began to read from it, but were once again engulfed in green light. Eirik heard Crixus cry out "No!" but then felt something wrap itself around him and faded once again into the world of dreams.

"Wake up!" he suddenly heard and felt something pushing him. Rising up, he saw that he and Crixus were standing (or in his case, lying) under a glowing green sky, filled with dark clouds made of many long tendrils. Before them, however, he saw a wall of stone, unlike the iron and books that had made up the bulk of the tower which they had been climbing. Eirik could see words glistening on the other side, but he also saw two Seekers floating between them and the words.

"Well, go ahead," Crixus said, gesturing to the Seekers.

Eirik drew out his seax, got himself back onto his feet, then rushed at the one on the left, pushing it against the stone wall with a sickening squelch. He began thrusting the knife over and over into the beast, but was suddenly pushed against it by a strong force that felt as though he was being pushed up against a tree. Suddenly he heard a loud squeal and then gasped as a knife hit the Seeker's bulbous body just a few inches from his own face. It collapsed and he once again rose up, but turned about to see Crixus standing on the body of the second Seeker, removing a dagger from its body.

"Thank you," Eirik said.

"Don't thank me yet," Crixus replied. "I don't think we're done here."

Eirik turned his attention to the wall of stone, recognizing the words in the ancient Dragon language. Here was a Thu'um, and he would learn it, if perchance it would serve them well in the coming battle. Near at hand, he saw Crixus join him, reading the words as well.

"Why do you do that?" Eirik asked. "You don't even use the Voice."

"I know," Crixus said. "But I refuse to let you know something I don't, especially if it means coming to blows with you one day."

"You say that with certainty," Eirik commented.

"Of course," Crixus said. "You're a Nord, I'm Cyrodilian. One of these days, it _will_ come to blows. And when that happens, I don't intend on dying or simply rolling over for you."

"Does it have to come to blows?"

But in that moment, they were suddenly swept onto the ground as a massive roar shook the air above them. Turning about, Eirik saw flying in the sky above them the strangest dragon he had ever seen. Its scales were ice-blue and smooth, not rigid, and its snake-like head, with a protruding lower jaw, had no horns or frills. Its tail also was naked and sleek, like a serpent's tail, and upon its back was a fin like a sail. With a sudden, ground-shaking tremor, the strange dragon landed upon the roof of the tower.

"_Fo...Krah Diin!_" the dragon roared.

Crixus leaped aside as soon as he saw the dragon approach, but Eirik had been less fortunate. The blast of the dragon's Thu'um felt like he had leaped into the Sea of Ghosts in the depths of winter. Every inch of his body was screaming in protest against the great chill that engulfed him. Even for a Nord, accustomed to the cold climes of Skyrim as he was, the frosty mist of the dragon's breath was overwhelming.

As Eirik was recovering from the dragon's breath, he looked about for where to make his next move when something cold and slimy wrapped around his wrist. The dragon seemed to slow down to a crawl and he saw, all around, bursting out of the thin air, long black tendrils and a hideous black membrane which frothed and bubbled lethargically. In the midst of this indiscernible mass, a single eye, like the eye of a goat, appeared from out of the darkness.

"_Your companion..._" the low, sleepy voice drawled. "_Thought to keep secret th__e power he had learned from me. But I am the Demon of Knowledge. I know all things, and I gave that knowledge to you_."

Eirik knew not how to respond. How had this thing helped him? He did remember, while crossing between planes, Crixus crying out in protest. Perhaps that was what this thing was speaking of: but what did that mean?

"_You know the power,_" the voice said, speaking from the mass, though Eirik saw no lips to move. "_Use it._"

As soon as the vision had appeared, the clammy tendril released him and he saw the dragon lunge its snake-like head at him. He barely had time to fall to the ground before the beast pinned him in its jaws against the stone wall. Then, his thoughts stirred by the demon's voice, he suddenly began speaking something he thought he had not even known.

"_Gol...Hah Dov!_" he shouted.

The dragon recoiled as though it had been struck, then backed away, its yellow eyes looking at the two Dragonborns in curiosity. Then, it lifted its long, serpentine neck upward, swayed for a moment, then looked at Eirik.

"Hail, _thuri_," the dragon said. "I am Sahrotaar. Your Thu'um has mastery. Climb aboard and I will carry you to Miraak."

"What the..." Crixus began. "Did you just..."

"Are you coming?" Eirik asked.

"On second thought," Crixus replied. "This is your battle. You subdued the dragon, it's your gift to take on Miraak."

"I can't do it alone!" Eirik retorted. "You know that!"

"Glad to hear you admit it," Crixus laughed. "But still, you have a fucking dragon at your command! You hardly need me to hold your hand...well, your _other_ hand."

"I thought this was why you brought me here in the first place!"

"Of course," Crixus said. "But now that I see everything is in order, I can wait here for your return."

"How do you know I will return?" Eirik asked. "Miraak can control dragons and men as well."

"You'll figure something out," Crixus replied. "Now go, and don't come back until Miraak is dead."

"No!" Eirik insisted. "You brought me here, you're seeing this to the very end!"

"Make me," Crixus said, turning his back and walking towards the end of the tower's edge.

Eirik swore at Crixus in the Nordic tongue, then turned and approached the massive dragon. Upon Eirik's approach, Sahrotaar lowered his neck down and bowed at the Nordic Dragonborn.

"Will you truly let me ride you?" Eirik asked.

"_Geh_," Sahrotaar nodded. "Miraak has forced me to serve him for too long. _Nahkriin saraan lingrah_. Let us destroy him together!"

The dragon leaned down, extending his long neck until it was almost laying on the ground. Eirik leaped aboard the neck, which was as smooth as it had appeared from afar. There were no niches or cuts in the scales with which to hold on, which meant that he would be trusting his life entirely to the whim of the dragon. Part of him wondered if his Thu'um failed him in mid-flight and the dragon would turn against him...

Just then, the large dragon swerved to the left as a wave of energy came flying up at them from one of the towers rising high above the sea of blackness. Looking down, Eirik saw several small dots flinging energy at them. Though they were still very far down, he could guess from their shapes that they were Seekers.

"Hold on, _thuri_," Sahrotaar called back. "I can destroy these pests with ease." The dragon flew down towards the roof of the tower, then shouted: "_Yol...Toor Shul!_" A wave of fire burst from the dragon's mouth, engulfing the Seekers below. Their burning bodies collapsed, writhing for a moment, then ceased to move. But no sooner had they ceased but Sahrotaar took wing again and turned his eyes and Eirik's towards the tallest tower they could see for miles around.

"There is Miraak's tower," the dragon said. "Beware, _thuri_. He is strong and has planned for this."

"For what?" Eirik shouted. "And why do you call me _thuri_?"

"It is the proper title," Sahrotaar replied. "Given to one's master. Your Thu'um was stronger than Miraak's, and so I am yours. But as for him, he knew you would come to this place. Doubtless he will have prepared for you."

Suddenly Sahrotaar swerved right, towards another tower. This time he seized one of the tall Lurkers in his jaws, thrashed his head about, then threw it down into the abyss below them. Then, with a loud roar, he turned about and began flying upward, towards the tall tower. Eirik held onto the dragon's smooth scales, hoping that there would be no more swerving. The dragon's neck was smooth and he found himself fighting to stay on board every time the dragon turned or dove downward.

Slowly they climbed upward and onward, towards the tallest tower. As they approached, Eirik thought he saw two large figures flying, circling above the top of the tower. But almost immediately as soon as he had seen them, the winged figures vanished. The dragon now passed on over the lip of the tower's surface, clenching onto the rim with his feet. Eirik slid off the dragon's slick neck and landed on the roof of the tower. It was mostly bare, save for an arch that stood on a raised platform in the center of the tower. Beneath the arch was a pool of the same black liquid Eirik had seen in the abyss about them. Littered around the top of the tower were books upon books, pages of books torn and littering the roof, and old scrolls unfurled and lying everywhere. But his eyes were not on the scrolls. Standing before the black pool was Miraak, in the flesh and no longer ethereal. On the opposite edge of the tower there stood two dragons, one with blue scales and the other with green scales. These were like the other dragons that Eirik had fought in Skyrim, but these were clearly Miraak's servants. Without a word from anyone, Miraak turned his masked face towards Eirik.

"And so," he began. "The First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn, at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt as Hermaeus Mora intended." He chuckled. "A pity you serve such a fickle master."

"I will fight you," Eirik said. "But for my own reasons."

"Indeed," Miraak laughed. "The daedric princes do not believe in free will. They insist that all our doings are the fulfillment of their will. But that will change. My time in Apocrypha will soon be over, and once I kill you and drain your rotten body of its soul, I will return to Solstheim and be master of my fate once again!" He breathed in. "_Gol...Hah Dov!_"

Eirik felt once again his body moving against his will. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, striking his head upon the stone floor.

"_Thuri!_" Sahrotaar roared.

"So easily swayed, Sahrotaar?" Miraak asked. "No matter. Kruziikrel, Relonikiv! Destroy this traitor!"

Eirik could not move, but he could hear the sound of wings flapping overhead and he guessed that Miraak had sent the two dragons on Sahrotaar. There was now no one left to help him, and now, trapped in this realm, there would be no escape. His nose was filling up with blood and he could see the shadow of two feet coming to a halt before him.

"You never learn, do you?" Miraak queried. "A pox upon the Nordic people you are, you and those weak-minded Skaal. Now, in my realm and subject to my power, you will die! It grieves me that you must meet your end this way, but necessity demands it!"

Miraak suddenly cried out and Eirik flinched, waiting for the blow of knife or magic. It took him a while to figure out that he had flinched, he had actually moved of his own power. He pushed against the floor and he rose. He was in possession of his own body once again. He saw Miraak was lying some feet away, hunched over as if struck and favoring his side. Then Eirik saw, standing across from him, the last sight he had expected to see anywhere, whether here or in the next life.

"Crixus!" he shouted. "You lying bastard! You deceiver!"

"Stay where you are!" Crixus ordered. "He can only control one of us at a time, but only if we remain separate."

"And what is this?" Miraak asked. "One of the weak, Nedic half-people?"

"Half-people?" Crixus retorted. "I'll make you eat those words, you Nordic cunt!"

"Down, slave!" Miraak shouted. "_Gol..._"

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

Two voices shouted, though Eirik was surprised that he had actually seen Crixus do this again. Miraak was thrown hard against the base of one of the arches, then slowly rose to his feet, looking in surprise at the Cyrodilian who stood before him, speaking as one of the Dovahkiin.

"Impossible!" he seethed.

"That's what you think, snow-back," Crixus said. "Now just try that again."

"_Wuld...Nah Kest!_" Miraak shouted. In a flash, he had swept down upon Crixus, knocking him down and had his hand around his throat. He drew out a dagger from his belt and held the blade at Crixus' throat.

"Slaves have no place questioning the will of their masters," Miraak said.

But Eirik had not been idle. Upon seeing what had taken place, he ran as fast as he could and knocked Miraak off Crixus, pinning him down and striking him in the stomach with his left hand. But if Eirik had surmised that Miraak was like the thin-bodied, pasty mages from the College of Winterhold, he was sorely mistaken. Miraak was of the same Atmoran stock as Ysgramor and while years of interbreeding with the other human races of Tamriel had diminished the Nords, Miraak was not so diminished. He pushed Eirik off himself, then rose to his feet, one hand holding the dagger while the other was open, as though he would cast a spell.

"Did your master say that before you betrayed him?" Crixus asked, pushing himself to his feet.

"Fools!" Miraak retorted. "Can you not see? This is the destiny of the sons of Skyrim, to kill the gods and take their power as our own! The dragons could not master me, and once I am free of this realm, not even the princes of Oblivion will be able to master me!"

"_Yol!_" Eirik shouted.

Miraak exploded into flames, but he threw himself on the ground and rolled about like a dog until the flames dissipated. He then rose to his feet, laughing as he turned his masked face towards Eirik.

"Is that the best you can do?" he asked. "_Yol...Toor Shul!_"

Eirik barely had time to move before a blast of dragon's fire from Miraak's mouth nearly engulfed him. He hit the floor hard, rolling aside to avoid the blast.

"And as for you," Miraak said, turning to Crixus. His outstretched hand suddenly sent bolts of lightning arcing through the air, striking Crixus and felling him to the floor, writhing and twitching violently. But suddenly, Eirik threw himself against Miraak, knocking him down again. Only this time, instead of trying to keep him down with his own strength, Eirik had another option. Drawing out his seax, he dove it into Miraak's chest. A swift blow, and the blade struck through his robes and stabbed into his flesh, for he wore no armor beneath his robes.

Eirik seemed shocked as he stepped back, looking at the dark stain now forming on Miraak's blue robes. It seemed far too easy, as though this were not the way he would have imagined Miraak to go, after all the pain he had put them through. But there it was, he had been run through, and now he turned his attention to Crixus, offering him his hand.

"Did you kill him?" he asked.

"He doesn't have long to live," Eirik replied. "Now get up, you. I think you owe me some words of explanation."

"By Namira's rotten cunt, I think I don't," Crixus replied.

"Why the hell did you leave me?" Eirik asked. "Why did you send me to kill him on my own?"

"Because I planned strategically," Crixus said. "I climbed aboard the dragon from behind and followed you here. I didn't want you looking back at me, since it would let that bastard know I was coming. As it was, I had the jump on him."

"Do you really think clinging onto a dragon counts as having the element of surprise?" Eirik asked. "Dragons are many things, but not stealthy."

"It worked, didn't it?" Crixus smiled.

"You think you've won?" a voice shouted in challenge. Both Crixus and Eirik turned about and saw Miraak standing there, half-way bent over with one hand on his chest, where the blade stuck. Eirik and Crixus exchanged glances, then ran as fast as they could away from each other. Eirik was the first to fall, being shocked by bolts of lightning. They subsided quickly, but he was still floored after the assault.

"I have watched you, Dragonborn," Miraak said. "I know your simple tactics. But you...are outmatched. _Fus...Ro Dah!_"

Eirik flew like a leaf in the wind, pages and books flying about with him, until the floor vanished from beneath his feet. He reached out, grasping in vain for there was nothing to take hold of to save himself. He wondered if he would survive the fall and if he did, would he be torn apart by the boneless limbs of this realm?

"_Thuri!_" a voice shouted. Suddenly Eirik felt himself caught up in the jaws of a dragon. The huge teeth did not bite down upon him to devour him, but they were clenched tightly enough that he would not fall. Up flew Sahrotaar, to the very top of the tower, and deposited Eirik on the floor. Without another word, he took off to fight the last dragon flying around the tower.

It was then that Eirik saw Miraak, standing alone on the tower. Behind him stood one of the dragons and before him lay Crixus, bound by Miraak's tyrannical Thu'um.

"Kruziikrel!" Miraak groaned, shouting at the dragon. "_Zii los dii du!_"

Eirik watched in surprise, awe and horror as the mighty dragon collapsed before the power of Miraak's voice, like an old man who, having reached the end of his life, merely sighs as he falls asleep where he stands. The body then caught fire and was burned away as Eirik saw, rushing like a fiery wind, the dragon's soul pour out into Miraak's open hand. With a loud groan, he tore Eirik's seax out of his chest and threw it away. He was now standing tall and strong, unperturbed by the blow that had almost felled him.

"I am Miraak the First!" he shouted. "The Dragonborn, he who defies the gods! I won't be slain so easily! But you will!"

"_Fus Ro Dah!_" Eirik shouted swiftly. His Thu'um, which had burst men's heads asunder, only caused Miraak to stumble backwards, as though he had been hit by a street urchin running through the market square.

"Do you know nothing else?" Miraak taunted. "_Fo...Krah Diin!_"

But Eirik had felt the chilling cold before and would not be caught unawares this time. He ran as the blast of ice cold air burst upon where he had once stood. He ran towards Miraak, but a blast of lightning struck him again. He saw, some distance away, Crixus rolled aside as Miraak's Thu'um of Unrelenting Force blasted apart a spiraling pillar of books, sending them flying every which way. He approached, but another blast of lightning kept him at bay. He then remembered what happened at their first attack on the Valtheim Towers. Of course, replicating that exact incident would be impossible. But he had an idea...

"Stay there!" he shouted.

"What are you doing?" Crixus retorted, as he saw Eirik running towards him. "Get away, go back!"

"Trust me!" Eirik added.

"Trust _you_?" Crixus replied incredulously.

"Yes, that's right," Miraak said. "Come together. I'll enjoy forcing you to tear each other apart."

Eirik jumped the rest of the way, taking hold of Crixus' ankle just as Miraak turned towards them. "_Gol...Hah Dov!_"

"_Tiid!_" he shouted.

Time slowed down, and Eirik could see, like a shimmering wave of gold, Miraak's tyrannical Thu'um as it slowly moved towards them. Lifting Crixus to his feet, he began pulling him out of the way of the oncoming Shout.

"What the hell is this?" Crixus asked.

"A Shout I found while on a mission for the true High King of Skyrim," Eirik replied.

"You mean your elf-hating pretender?" Crixus corrected.

"There's no time, it will all soon be over!" Eirik said quickly. "Fire an arrow at him, while he cannot move!"

"And you say I'm underhanded!" Crixus chuckled. But he did not protest or say another word, but drew from his black quiver a long arrow, old-style Redoran arrows from Morrowind, fletched with racer plumes, fitted it into his bow, drew the bow back to its fullest might, and released...

Time suddenly came back into play and Miraak doubled over as an arrow stuck fast in his chest, right in his heart. He gasped and coughed, but was still kneeling down.

"I...will _not_...die...this way!" Miraak groaned in protest. "Relonikiv_, zii los dii du!_"

From the sky the body of the second dragon suddenly smote the tower's edge, shaking them all as its huge body shattered part of the tower. As the dragon's lifeless body slowly slid off the tower's edge, towards the black oblivion of Apocrypha below, Miraak held out his hand and received the dragon's soul as it siphoned out of the beast's body and into his own.

"Try that again, weaklings!" Miraak retorted.

Crixus and Eirik split up again, but Eirik kept his eyes on Crixus, who was fitting another arrow into his bow. He waited until the arrow was bent back before he shouted: "_Yol!_"

"_Feim...Zii Gron!_" Miraak shouted.

Eirik saw once again as Miraak appeared as he had in Skyrim: that is to say both there but not wholly tangible. With a laugh, he walked lazily towards them, arms crossed over his chest with an air of confidence in his walk.

"You were fools to come here," Miraak said. "Behold how I pulled Relonikiv out of the sky. Heh, such a shame that our people once worshiped these beasts, Dragonborn. No matter, I have called down the gods in fire and death: what chance do you two think you have against me?"

"This power," Eirik replied. "You could use it for so much good!"

"Ha!" Miraak mocked. "The Tongues thought as you do. Yes, I remember because I was there. Six thousand years mean nothing here in this realm. I saw the apparent defeat of Alduin and his inevitable return. But I had much bigger conquests than a mere dragon: no, I would make conquest of the gods!"

"Enough talk!" Crixus shouted. "Show yourself, coward!"

"Coward?" Miraak laughed.

"Yes, coward," Eirik retorted. "You never faced us in fair combat, you always stole what was not yours right out from under our noses."

"And who is to say those dragon souls ever belonged to you?" the voice of Miraak questioned.

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet turned into a black abyss, and they saw the massive black tendrils - such as they had seen in the 'oceans' of Apocrypha - leap out of the floor and grab hold of them. Eirik turned and saw Miraak standing there, with his staff held aloft in his hand. But both of them were bound, separate though they were from each other. Pain began leeching into Eirik's body, starting with his feet, which were now cold and clammy, like the tendrils of the Demon of Knowledge.

But at that moment, when victory for Miraak seemed assured, the dragon Sahrotaar swooped in from above and struck Miraak down. His power momentarily broken, both Crixus and Eirik were freed as the macabre tendrils receded into the floor. Across the roof of the tower, as Miraak was rising, he cast bolts of lightning at Sahrotaar, but the dragon took the blow as though it were nothing.

"_Ven...Gaar Nos!_" Miraak shouted.

The two watched in awe as a great storm burst forth from Miraak's mask, swirling and billowing towards Sahrotaar. The serpentine dragon reared up on his hind legs and began to beat his wings against Miraak's cyclonic Thu'um.

"_Yol...Toor Shul!_" roared Sahrotaar.

Miraak erupted into flames as the dragon's breath engulfed him in fire. But then, as he tried to quench the fire, the wind blown by the dragon's beating wings made the flames burn even stronger. Eirik and Crixus watched as the First Dragonborn screamed and writhed on the floor of the tower, burning in his robes. But it did not last long enough, for the robes did not burn - blessed as they were by whatever spells his dragon masters had placed upon it when he took up his old office - and the wind beneath the dragon's wings also blew out the fire. What remained of Miraak was a twitching, convulsing ball of smoke and blackened robes. The smoke that rose from beneath his mask smelled of burning flesh.

"Have it...your way..." Miraak groaned, speaking to Sahrotaar. "Join...the Last...Dragonborn...in his destr...uction!"

"Sahrotaar, go!" Eirik commanded. "Fly away, now!"

"Let me slay this one, _thur__i_," Sahrotaar insisted. "I have been waiting thousands of _joore_ years for this vengeance."

"Go, now!" Eirik insisted. "He'll kill you!"

"_Zii los...dii du!_" Miraak shouted.

Eirik watched helplessly as Sahrotaar, risen to a majestic size with wings spread about, suddenly quailed as though impaled through the heart, and collapsed upon the tower. From out of his ruin arose Miraak, hands at his sides and breathing heavily as Sahrotaar's soul swirled around him and the dragon's body burned behind him.

"You're strong," he said, speaking to Eirik. "But you have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield. Six thousand years in the realm of knowledge, I know things the Greybeards will never teach you! _Mul...Qah Diiv!_"

Miraak's body was engulfed in fire, which clung to him and flickered in a certain fashion. The fire wrapped around his hands, and they became claws, around his shoulders which now bore great spikes, about his masked head, which grew forth two great horns, and around his body, clothed now in fiery scales. He looked like a living god, a dragon in human form.

"You put great pride in yourself, Miraak," Eirik said. "But your all-knowing powers have failed you. For they forgot to tell you that _this_ does not give you greater strength. _Mul...Qah Diiv!_"

Into Eirik's mind flashed the first time he slew a dragon, and felt its soul enter his body. It broke his weariness, dispelled any aches or fatigue within his body, it made him feel alive and strong. What he felt when he spoke those three words was even greater. Weariness faded into a cold fire that kept him burning and eager for the fight. His right hand now felt as strong as his left hand, and his very breath was powerful, steaming as though he had indeed become a dragon.

"By Molag's cock!" Crixus exclaimed. "There's no way I'm letting you out-do me, not this time! _Mul Qah Diiv!_"

In the two hundred years of the Fourth Era, the stories of the last scion of Talos, Martin Septim, spread throughout the Imperial provinces. Most of those involved his great sacrifice before the daedric prince Mehrunes Dagon. The stories seemed to grow even more heroic and grandiose with every person telling them. Some even said that, when he died, Akatosh himself came down and assumed a physical form to defeat the prince of destruction. What happened when Crixus called upon the Thu'um of the Dragon Aspect was, to Eirik's eyes, the likeness of what he had heard concerning Martin's heroic death. The same draconian features that Miraak had assumed came upon Crixus, and he himself seemed as though he were a god himself, like Tiber Septim come back to life.

"You dare use my own Shout against me!" Miraak retorted. "No matter, your combined powers will make me invincible!"

The two Dragonborns exchanged glances with each other, then turned to Miraak and ran towards him.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" Miraak shouted.

The blast struck Eirik full on, but it felt like nothing more than being hit by a small branch while riding through the forest. He didn't even stagger as he ran towards the First Dragonborn.

"_Yol...Toor Shul!_" Miraak retorted.

Both of them were engulfed in an inferno. It heated their skin such as when one places their unprotected hand over an open flame for a few seconds and causes blisters. But they did not catch fire, for the dragon's aspect made them strong enough to endure powerful Thu'ums without taking serious hurt. They could see the fear in Miraak as he looked back and forth at them, striding through the flames.

"_Iiz...Slen Nus!_" Miraak shouted.

The two were once again blasted by the cold. But while they were able to withstand the cold, they could feel their limbs slowing down and walking became arduous. Then their limbs ceased to move all together, and they were frozen in place. Eirik pushed against the ice, and it cracked slowly. Nearby, he could hear Crixus straining against it as well.

But then, out of nowhere, a figure appeared. Before them there knelt two great figures, a man and a woman, both of them clad in armor made out of the bones of dragons. In the hands of the woman was a short sword and in the hands of the man a great-sword. These two turned then towards Miraak and charged towards him, weapons in their hands. The First Dragonborn drew out his staff in one hand and his dagger in the other and began fighting them off. But his lightning and sword seemed to do nothing against them, nor did his attempts to bend their will to his control. Eirik smiled as he saw the fight, then pushed against the ice again, causing it to shatter around his right arm. He pushed again, and then his right arm was free. With a loud roar, he pushed again and crashed through the ice. Across from him, he saw Crixus push himself out of the ice with a loud oath, then made his way towards Miraak.

Weakened though he was, the snake was still dangerous. He turned his attention from the spectral heroes and towards the real ones, clad in the aspect of the dragon as he himself.

"What does it take to kill you?!" he shouted. "_Gol..._"

But Eirik tackled him down, the sheer weight of his own body and the dragon's power making him into an unstoppable juggernaut. With his right fist, he struck down upon Miraak, and then again with his left, and began to beat him down with the power of the dragons behind every blow. While such powerful blows would have crushed the bones of any mortal, Miraak was enveloped in the aspect as well, which cracked and shattered beneath Eirik's relentless blows. Then he seized the spectral horns on Miraak's head and ripped them off, shattering the protective dragon-skull. He delivered one last punch, which knocked the mask off Miraak's face.

Eirik was shocked and surprised at what he saw. The man that was looking up at him was a Nord, just like him, roughly the same age as Crixus - that is to say, in the mid forties - with black hair uncharacteristic of a Nord. His hair, unlike Eirik's was short and receding from the front of his head. As Eirik held up his fist, ready to smash in Miraak's face, the strangest thing then happened. Miraak started laughing.

"You'll be dead in a moment!" Eirik said. "What's so funny?"

"Exactly this," Miraak retorted. "Hermaeus Mora is certainly laughing at us, you know. The new pawn verses the one who defied him."

"This ends now!" Eirik threatened.

"Or does it?" Miraak replied. "Kill me and you will not be free. Hermaeus Mora's will shall be fulfilled through your actions. See? I am the only way to freedom, to escape the will of these tyrannical gods and daedric princes!"

"He has a point," Crixus stated.

"Speak for yourself!" Eirik retorted, turning a suspicious glance at Crixus. He then turned to Miraak. "Why did you send your servants to kill us?"

"I knew Hermaeus Mora," Miraak said. "Would harvest you, that he would bring you to Solstheim, to try and...destroy me! Only another like myself could have faced me thus: only...a true Dragonborn."

Eirik paused, feeling used and weak, as though every choice he had made since that night in Arcwind Point that had brought him to this point was not of his own choosing, but the ulterior motive of some thing that robbed his will. A thing that was neither human nor divine, but unnatural.

"Do you now see?" he asked. "Once a servant of the daedra, always a servant of the daedra. You fought well, but, I am afraid, this is far from over. I am the master of my own fate, I will_ not_ be defeated this way. This realm is large and I have spent the past six thousand years evading the eye of Hermaeus Mora. I will return and take what is mine!"

Suddenly a black tendril reached out from the pool beneath the arch and wrapped itself around Miraak's body, dragging him towards the pool even though he clawed at the floor and strewn books and papers. Once he reached the pool, the tendril lifted Miraak up into a standing position. He spoke, but when he did, his voice was deep, harsh and hollow.

"Did you think to escape me, Miraak?" the new voice asked. "You can hide nothing from me here. But it is inconsequential. I have found new Dragonborn mortals to serve me."

"Aye," Miraak said, speaking to Crixus and Eirik while straining against the new voice. "And when your time comes...and he...betrays you...may your reward...be as...mine!"

In that moment, the tendril which had once wrapped around Miraak's middle section, ran him through like a stake. It then began to pulsate and a sickening sucking sound was heard. Slowly but surely, Eirik and Crixus saw Miraak's flesh began to rot away from off his bones, bit by bit, inch by inch.

"Miraak harbored fantasies of rebellion against me," the voice said, using Miraak's rotting lips to communicate. "Learn from his example, both of you. Serve me faithfully and you will continue to be richly rewarded."

Eirik, who was looking at Miraak's body, saw that it had been reduced to a skeleton in his robes, which now collapsed before the black pool. He turned about to see Crixus' reaction, but saw that, instead, he was looking upward, at the sky. Looking up, he saw the sky filled with black tendrils in great numbers. But directly over the tower was a larger mass of tendrils and black bubbles. In the mist of them was the greenish yellow goat's eye, blinking down upon them with curiousness and quiet malice. Thus Eirik Bjornsson saw the manifestation of the daedric prince whose likeness few had ever seen: Hermaeus Mora, the lord of Apocrypha.

* * *

**(AN: Okay, I hope you liked this chapter, our first big boss battle. I hoped I described it well. Yes, Crixus and Eirik are definitely going to be more amiable towards each other: Crixus, obviously, because Eirik survived this battle heavily handicapped. The reason Unrelenting Force worked on Miraak that once is because _both_ of them did it at once. That might be bending the rules, but I only did it once. Also, yes, I know that Crixus has a filthy mouth. I've tried to get most of it out in this chapter, since he won't be using it that much more in his future appearances.)**

**(Now, about Miraak - who, beneath his mask, looks more like Nergal of _Behemoth_ without the corpse-paint instead of what I thought he'd look like - how could he have known about the Greybeards unless he's omniscient in some way? That bugs me because, if he were trapped in Apocrypha, how could he have known about what happened in last four thousand years? Possibly, since Apocrypha is the realm of the Demon of Knowledge, everything that has been recorded throughout Nirn's history is stored there, including the knowledge of the Greybeards. Also, while I received heavy flak from reviewers on having two Dragonborns in this story, I made it that Miraak, being who he is, would not believe that Crixus is a Dragonborn. Of course, that might be because Crixus rarely uses his Thu'um. Also, on the subject of Miraak, I found out that a lot of content from _Dragonborn_ was cut. Once again, proof of rushed DLCs. I have no idea of what fully was planned, but I did include some of Miraak's cut dialogue in this story.)**


	71. The Sons of Skyrim

**(AN:Lol, thanks for reviewing the last chapter. Yes, I definitely plan to make the final boss HUGELY epic.)**

**(For this chapter, I am going to take a risk and show some more of Eirik's past. Also you will see the beginning of some measure of mutual respect forming between Eirik and Crixus. Obviously less profanity, because I realized that I drop the f-bomb a little too much in this story, but there will still be some choice words in the future, just not as many. Hope you enjoy this update.)  
**

* * *

**The Sons of Skyrim  
**

Eirik felt unsafe beneath the watchful gaze of Hermaeus Mora, even though they had defeated Miraak and his body was rushing with energy. The aspect of the dragon had long since faded, and he looked as he had always looked: and his hand, unfortunately, was still in pain. Nearby was Crixus, who was looking at the arch. Where once had been a pool of black water, there now stood a shrine enclosing another pedestal with a book lying upon it. They would have to go back now, but go back to what? By freeing Solstheim from Miraak, they had fulfilled the will of the daedric prince. How could he go back to the Skaal and tell them that their shaman had died fulfilling the will of their greatest foe?

"Well, then," Crixus spoke up, turning towards Eirik. "That was more than I had expected from you."

"You fought well," Eirik replied.

"Of course I did," Crixus said. "And I dealt the last blow, let that not be forgotten."

"_You_ dealt the last blow?" Eirik asked.

"Yeah, I shot him," Crixus replied.

"I was the one who beat him to the ground," Eirik said.

"But you did not kill him," Crixus stated.

"Nor did you!"

"You struck him first with your knife," Crixus explained. "Then I shot him with my bow. Then the dragon breathed fire on him, and Hermaeus Mora slew him in the end. Ergo, I had the last blow."

"It was still my fists which struck him down," Eirik retorted. "Therefore I had the last blow of all."

"That's not how I'll recount this tale," Crixus said.

"Have it your way, then," Eirik replied. "But let us leave this place at once."

"I agree," Crixus said.

The two of them walked over to the shrine, opened the book and began to read from it. As before, they were engulfed by the black tendrils and descended once again into the realm of darkness.

* * *

When Eirik opened his eyes again, he tasted cold snow in his mouth. Pushing himself up off the ground, he saw that he was in the midst of the Skaal village. He saw Crixus rising up as well, and so pushed himself to his feet. Within a few moments of their arrival, he saw Frea approach them, her face grim and sad. Behind her thronged the Skaal, looking to their new spiritual leader.

"Outsider, Skaal-friend," Frea greeted them. "Give me your tidings. Has Miraak been defeated?"

Eirik's tongue seemed to swell within his mouth. He had been dreading this moment in Apocrypha, but now he was once again faced with the inevitability of the question and the horrific answer. Should he tell her the whole truth? She deserved that, but it would break her spirit, knowing that her father had died simply to fulfill Hermaeus Mora's will, the one who was the enemy of the Skaal. But would lying truly be the answer? These he pondered over until he saw her give him a look of insistence.

"It's over," he answered. "Miraak is dead."

"I felt the land return to unity," Frea said, a smile passing over her face. "The Tree Stone is free again, and my father's sacrifice was not in vain." She sighed, looking towards his hut for a while before addressing them again. "Tell me...was it the only way? Did he need to die?"

Eirik looked back at Crixus, who merely shook his head gently, then turned back to Frea. "We couldn't have defeated Miraak without Storn's help, regrettable as his death was, for all of us."

"Then it was the will of the All-Maker," Frea said resignedly. "Just as he told me. I shouldn't have doubted him, and yet it was good to hear all the same. Thank you, both of you. Whatever your reasons for acting, you have done the Skaal a great service. We will not forget what you've done this day." She knelt down as the one whom Eirik remembered was their leader, a dark-haired woman named Fanari Strong-Voice, approached them from the crowd.

"You have saved the Skaal this day from the bondage of Miraak," Fanari said. "For this, you both shall be greatly rewarded." She turned to the others in the crowd and waved several of them forward. There was a little girl, a large man with a bald head, and an old man who was blind in one eye. They bore with them things wrapped in heavy cloth made of the skins of animals.

"For you," Fanari said. "Outsider and son of the Empire, a hunter of men, I give you such things as will be suitable to you. First is a dagger, such as the Skaal use to cut open the beasts we hunt." The young girl stepped forward and gave to Crixus a long knife, fashioned in the manner of the Skaal weaponry. She then turned to the old man. "Lastly, these kinds of bows are used by my people as they hunt prey in the mountains. They are strong, with resistance equaling the weight of a young man. May these gifts serve you well." The old man approached Crixus and gave him the bow and a quiver of arrows of sufficient length for such a mighty bow.

"Lastly, I come to you, Skaal-friend," Fanari said to Eirik. "If ever you have a desire to return here, there will always be a place for you. However, as you are one who rushes so brazenly into battle, it is only fitting that you should wear the aspect of the bear." The bald man presented Eirik with a helmet of Nordic steel, carved in the likeness of a bear with the face coming out of the bear's mouth. This Eirik took and held for a while, but then saw Fanari draw out a long-sword. It was magnificent, with runes drawn upon the blade and two hilts, the one nearest the blade smaller than the other. Between both hilts were each a grip made of leather from the hides of beasts.

"This sword belonged to our leader, Skaf the Giant," Fanari said. "I bestow it on you, who stares down death with no fear, who faces death like the Skaal. May it keep you well upon the path you have chosen." She handed Eirik the great-sword, and then stepped back, addressing both of them.

"My last gift I give to both of you," Fanari replied. "Though we extended this once, we now give it freely to both of you. From this day onward, you will be Skaal-friends, welcomed among our people and treated as one of us."

The people behind her shouted out in welcome to them and came forward, showering them with blessings of mouth and offering them food from their hunts. While Crixus basked in this with a kind of boredom, Eirik felt a hand take hold of his shoulder and lead him away from the crowd, behind Storn's hut.

"I know it is not my place," said the voice of Frea. The young Skaal shaman was standing before him, with a grim expression on her face. "But in case I do not have the chance to do so again, I would give you this warning."

"Warning?" Eirik asked. "Against what?"

"As shaman of the Skaal," Frea began. "It is my charge to protect the spiritual well-being of my people, and while you are not Skaal, you are Skaal-friend. Therefore, be wary of this daedric lord." Eirik halted, apprehension rising with him.

"While I do not know what happened between you and Miraak when you left us," Frea continued. "I remember what happened before you left. That thing that appeared before us, it was Herma-Mora, the Demon of Knowledge. He used you to destroy Miraak, even as he used my father to learn our secret." Eirik began to speak. "I know what I saw. I thank you for not making it public. This is why I pulled you aside, that I may speak with you in private. The Outsider Tharstan spoke of the people beyond Solstheim, of your Empire and its many gods, and of those who worship the daedra. He said that there is a saying among your people: 'once a servant of the daedra, always a servant of the daedra.' Therefore I must warn you not to be lured further down the path of servitude to Herma-Mora. The All-Maker made you Dragonborn for a higher purpose, never forget that."

"I won't," Eirik said. "But..."

"But what?"

"Why do you not speak this to Crixus also?" Eirik gestured to Crixus, who was uncharacteristically basking in the adoration of the Skaal.

"He refuses to see anything beyond the land, wind and sea," Frea replied sadly. "For him, there is nothing beyond death, not even a rebirth. Such a sad way to look upon life."

"I agree," Eirik said, with a sigh of weary resignation. "But there is no persuading him."

"There is no greater glory or reward for him," she said. "Than what he receives now from my people." She turned back to Eirik. "But you, I have seen the way you walk, how you speak, and the great weariness with which you sigh in the hours of waking and sleeping. It must be a heavy burden indeed to be Dragonborn. But you need not worry: for there are others who are more than willing to share your burdens, not out of obligation but out of their own free will. Take strength from them, for you have much yet to offer this world."

"Thank you, Frea Crag-Strider," Eirik said. "Long live the Skaal."

"Walk always with the All-Maker, Skaal-friend," Frea replied with a smile.

Eirik made his way to where Crixus was, who was now pulling away from the crowd and looking for Eirik. Before they met, Eirik saw once again the woman whom he had met before and who had given him the charge in Falkreath.

"Skaal-friend!" said Morwen. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for us all. The land is free and we will be at peace once more."

"It was the least I could do," Eirik replied.

"Did you...do what I had requested?" she asked.

"Aye," he nodded. "The amulet has been placed on the grave-stone in Falkreath."

"Good," Morwen said. "My family may rest in peace now, thanks to you. For this and for slaying Miraak, I am forever in your debt. If there is anything I could do for you..."

"I can think of a few things," Crixus said, stepping forward. "Come now, Eirik. We have a long way back to Raven Rock, and it's already very late."

"We're not staying here for the night?" Eirik asked.

"Surely you jest!" Crixus smiled. "After that battle, I feel like I could walk the length of this island without rest!"

Eirik nodded, realizing that he himself also felt that unyielding strength within him. The exact same strength as he had felt when he slew his first dragon and absorbed its soul. Had killing Miraak released the souls of the many dragons he had absorbed?

* * *

They arrived in Raven Rock late in the evening, with the sun having long since faded and night fallen upon the island. Crixus and Eirik said little to each other, keeping instead their concentration on the walk back to Raven Rock. They were not particularly angry at each other, but breathing in the lower climes of Solstheim meant inhaling the ash, which would only slow their pace.

It was dark when they reached the Bulwark and passed through. While Crixus led the way towards the ships, Eirik saw a torch approaching them from the city streets. The torch was suddenly thrown down and he found himself wrapped in strong, steel-clad arms.

"My love!" Mjoll said, pressing herself against him. "It's good to see you again. You two left without any notice, or I would have been there with you."

"Mjoll," Eirik sighed, pleased rather than weary. "Your sight alone is all I need, all I have been waiting for since I trod the dark paths of Apocrypha."

"Please, come with me," she said, running over to where she had dropped the torch and picked it up. Following her light, Eirik came to the Retching Netch. But Eirik forbade her, pulling instead her hand towards the coast. With torch still in hand, she followed him to the rocks on the northern edge of Raven Rock before the sea. Nearby, the low mooing of netches could be heard in the dark.

"This is the very spot," Mjoll said. "Where we watched the netches all those months ago."

"Aye," Eirik replied. "Mjoll, do you remember what passed between us on the ship?"

"Aye," she nodded. "I told you, I am willing to wait."

"But I am not," he replied. "And we are as safe as we can be, as the Empire has no place in Solstheim, and the only elves I've seen here are Dunmer." He sighed taking Mjoll's hand in his own.

"Do you remember what I said about my time in Cyrodiil?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "You lived in Bruma and studied at the university there. I think his name was Sven Stone-Fist, the one who took you under his tutelage as a page."

"That is true," Eirik began. "But soon I discovered my true purpose there. Sven was a member of the Stone-Fist family, a clan living in Windhelm. You've already met one or two of them. Galmar is lieutenant and huscarl to Ulfric Stormcloak. Sven is the black sheep of the family, in that his hatred for the inhabitants of Windhelm - the Dunmer and Argonians - is not as great as that of his brothers."

"I disagree with that as well," Mjoll interjected. "Surely they have as much right to live in Skyrim as anyone else."

"But if they live here," replied Eirik. "They should at least behave as citizens, paying our taxes and choosing openly whether or not to fight in the war. But that is not what I mean to speak of. In Bruma, he told me of his purpose. When I had come of age, he spoke of the 'triumphant' victory of Ulfric against the Reachmen in Markarth, that there were some in Skyrim who would not bow down to the Thalmor and the White-Gold Concordant which robbed us of our birthright and of Talos, the only human to ascend to godhood. He spoke of Ulfric now in Windhelm as the Jarl, who was at that time denying the Thalmor their 'right' to go among the people and maintain 'peace'. Bah! They're spies, just like in Solitude and Winterhold! Sven told me as much, but when I saw them there, I knew he was right. But, forgive me, I'm rambling.

"When I had come of age, he told me that I was to become one of the Sons of Skyrim. He said we were a secret organization who was working to subvert the Thalmor and have the White-Gold Concordant abolished. He was sent to Bruma, the only city in Cyrodiil that was predominantly Nordic, and find those who were opposed to the tyranny of the Elves. I was to help him in this endeavor."

Mjoll said nothing, but the silence of the wind howling through the empty, ashen fields and the lowing of netches made Eirik fear her silence more than any words she may have spoken.

"I didn't tell you before," he continued. "Because we were sworn to secrecy. We operated under false names, we used different locations, always at night. Sven told me that the Thalmor had eyes and ears everywhere. Cyrodilians could not be trusted, and there were some among the Nord population of Bruma who would sell out our location to the Thalmor agents there. I remember several times we would be on the run because they found our safe-house and we would have to run up into the hills and hide there until we believed that we had shaken pursuit.

"Then war broke out in Skyrim, and Sven told us that the time for secrecy was gone. We would either find the true sons of Skyrim in Bruma, or return in defeat and pledge ourselves to the High King. If we thought that we had had rough time working in secret, it was nothing compared to working in public. No one believed us, even though most of the town were Nords. Some of them laughed at us, some said we were drunken apes who gave civilized Nords a bad name, others smote us over the heads with _The Talos Mistake_, telling us that no one believed in the false god anymore. When that didn't stop us, the governor of Bruma declared us to be outlaws. Within an hour of that declaration, people suddenly came out of the woodwork with accusations against us. Dunmer women said we haunted the streets at night, preying on them and their daughters. Our own Nordic brethren said that, if they entertained us in their houses, they would find valuables missing the morning after. Then the accusations became even wilder, saying that we had started a riot and beaten two Thalmor agents to death, or that we were holding daedric rituals, trying to summon Mehrunes Dagon again.

"Two weeks before the dragon attack at Helgen," Eirik paused for a moment, reminiscing still on what had happened. "They finally drove us out of Bruma. An angry mob had assembled, stirred up by the governor of Bruma and the Thalmor agents. They beat Sven half to death, I was barely able to pull him from their murderous hands and carry him into the woods. He...he died in my arms. When he was dying, he told me to go in his stead to Windhelm and take up arms against the Empire...and then he was gone."

"I'm sorry, love," Mjoll said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"I wish I could say it was nothing," Eirik said. "But it wasn't, and it isn't. That man showed me the path of knowledge. He was to me more father than my own father. He gave within me the love of my homeland, one which has grown, not weakened, ever since my return. Now he might have been either lied to or willfully knowing and deceived me." He sighed again. "It seems now that everything I have known and believed in has been a lie."

* * *

**(AN: And so I have now finished retelling Eirik's past. While, at first, you might [emphasis on 'might', because everyone here seems to hate the Stormcloaks right from the very start] have felt for him while he was sitting at the headsman's block, what do you think now that you know he was part of a nascent movement that, eventually, because part of the Stormcloak rebellion? Also, his reading of _The Bear of Markarth_ really shook him up, and I hope I captured some of that. It is relevant to what happens later on in the story, as I have tried to bring all the strings I began to weave together at some point or another.)**

**(This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I guess I can bring it to a conclusion here. The next chapter will detail his return to Skyrim and all of the horrible things that seem to be waiting for him the moment he steps back on native soil.)**


	72. The Threat

**(AN: Well, that's more like it. As far as "racism" goes, well, obviously, the Thalmor have it coming. As for the Dunmer, well, that's a different story. Despite their sordid history and how their books depict Nords in such horribly racist terms ["savage", "naked" and "barbarians" are the adjectives used by Dunmer to describe Nords], the High King of Skyrim in the early years of the 4th era gave the Dunmer permission to live in Skyrim after the eruption of the Red Mountain. The Decree of Monument gives them special treatment in Skyrim, in that they are "untithed" to any thane or hold [does that mean they don't have to pay taxes?], "self-governed", meaning they don't answer to the Jarls, and untied to either the High King or to the Empire. The Nords pretty much just said "you can live in our land for free, unanswerable to anyone". Now here's an interesting thing: in the narrative of the Exodus from the Bible, my brother [who also plays _Skyrim_] is under the belief that the Bible embellished how the Hebrews were treated by the Egyptians, saying that they didn't cause them to "serve with rigor" making their lives bitter with hard bondage, but were nice to them, etc. Oddly enough, in his mind, while the Egyptians can be excused from breaking the pact they made to let the Hebrews live in Goshen and making them slaves because 400 years passed and the Hebrews were Jews [his words, not mine], the Nords are held accountable for the Decree of Munment even though 200 years passed and, obviously, the people - the little folk like Galmar, Angrenor, Rolff and even self-righteous Brunwulf Free-Winter - don't like these strangers living in Skyrim.)**

**(And yes, while Brunwulf speaks of freedom and justice for Nord and Dunmer alike, he "don't hold with no lizards or cats." And he becomes Jarl of Windhelm if, as the fan-fiction authors love, Ulfric is killed. So my guess is that he'd let the Dunmer live in Windhelm, but the Argonians would migrate to the Grey Quarter and he'd keep the Khajiit out of Windhelm. Yeah, some bastion of equal rights there! And maybe it's not right, but after 200 years of the Dunmer living in Skyrim, unanswerable to the same laws that govern the Nords, free from their taxes, etc., of course there's going to be racial injustice! As far as Ulfric, he does have a war to run and spends his time doing that [or, as my readers would like it, paying off the Moot to make him High King if he wins], so he leaves the running of Windhelm to Jorleif, who, being unexperienced, probably leaves things the way they have been in Windhelm since before Ulfric. People just blame Ulfric because he's an easy target, though if Torygg were still alive, nobody would blame him for the treatment of Dunmer, Argonians and Khajiit across Skyrim, even though he's the High King.)**

* * *

**The Threat**

When Eirik awoke, he could not recall what had happened the night before. He knew that he had been speaking with Mjoll out in front of the netch pastures by the sea, but sometime between then and now, he had fallen asleep. When he awoke, he found himself on a ship. His first thought was that he had been pressed by pirates and reached for his seax. That, of course, was foolish because he had lost his seax in Apocrypha. Also, had he been captured, there would be no weapons to grab, not even the armor that he wore would be upon his body.

But then he lifted up his eyes and saw, in the same cargo room of the ship in which he was lying, Mjoll seated across from him with a smile on her face.

"Good morning, love," she greeted.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You fell asleep in my lap," Mjoll said. "A few moments later, Crixus found us and told me to get you onto the Red Dog immediately. He says we're on our way back to Skyrim."

"Good," Eirik mused aloud. "I have much yet to do once I return. There's...there's Serana, she wanted me to go with her to Castle Volkihar, and then there's the war. Ulfric is likely doubting my loyalty: he should, I haven't done anything towards the war effort in months, and I am the Dragonborn, imagine the loss the Sons of Skyrim would face if I defected. Not to mention learning this Thu'um, the one Esbern and Paarthurnax sent me to find. I...I'm so very busy!"

"Rest now, love," Mjoll said. "You've fought valiantly, I've heard about what happened in Apocrypha."

"You have?"

"Well, of course!" she laughed. "Crixus would not stop talking about it! It was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed. He spoke highly of your resilience against anything Miraak threw against you, of how you assumed the aspect of the Dragons and charged head-first and beat Miraak to the ground. Why, I almost thought I was hearing another man speak your praises, knowing what I know of Crixus!"

"He fought valiantly as well," Eirik replied.

"He has been very secretive about himself," Mjoll said. "Never on deck, never in the mess hall or walking the corridors of the ship. He's locked himself up in his quarters all through the journey. I don't like it, it smells of the Thieves Guild."

"I wonder why," Eirik mused again. "I would assume he'd be the first one to bask in the glory of this conquest."

"Who knows," Mjoll retorted. "Still, there is something I should have said before you fell asleep."

"What's that?"

"Thank you," she said with a smile on her face. "You told me the truth and I believe you. I know it must have been difficult, bringing up the death of your mentor and what that means to you now, having read that book, but you kept your word. I'm sorry that I didn't trust you before. I should have known the Thalmor would fabricate lies about you."

"How so?" Eirik asked.

"I also read a book," she began. "It was the second volume of _Rising Threat_, written by an exile from Sommerset Isles. It spoke of the Thalmor's treachery, how they claimed sole responsibility for saving Tamriel from the Oblivion Crisis in the Third Era, and denounced and exiled their own heroes who said otherwise. Shameful!"

"Indeed," Eirik commented.

"Oh, gods above!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"What? What is it?"

"I just remembered," she said. "It's been months, it must have slipped my mind."

"What is it?"

"A few days before your arrival," she began. "I received a letter from the court wizard in Dawnstar about some strange happenings there. She pleaded with me to go there and help the people there, but as I could not leave, I...I left the note in _Rising Threat_ and plainly forgot about it. I feel so horrible, I could have done something."

"It might not be too late," Eirik said. "We could still go back to Riften and you could retrieve the letter."

"Could we?" Mjoll asked. "I'm sure Maven Black-Briar has sent the Thieves Guild to ransack Aerin's house, and with him away, coming to Breezehome after us, it might not be there at all. For all I know, it was stolen by those filthy thieves and then burned when they saw it held no value to them."

"Don't worry," Eirik assured her. "The first thing I'll do when we return to Skyrim is go to Riften and retrieve that note. You have my word."

"Thank you, love," Mjoll smiled. Just then, there was a knock on the wall. Turning, Eirik saw Gorak the Giant-Tamer staring down at him.

"Crixus wants to speak with you in private," he said to Eirik.

"I'll be there in a moment," Eirik replied.

"He requests that you go now!" the Orc demanded.

"Then I suppose I'll be going now," Eirik pushed himself up, but then collapsed as his right hand suddenly exploded with sharp pain.

"What is it?" Mjoll asked.

"Agh!" he groaned. "It's nothing, I'll be alright."

"If you insist," Mjoll replied. "But that didn't look like nothing."

Eirik sighed, but said nothing else as he followed Gorak out of the cargo hold, down the corridor and to another room which was bare of everything but a single bed-roll and a few crates and barrels. Sitting upon it, kneeling down with eyes closed and deep in thought, was Crixus. Gorak closed the door behind them, and Eirik could hear heavy footsteps indicating his departure.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked. Crixus did not immediately reply. "Are you...praying?"

"Of course not," Crixus replied. "I've had some...things that I needed to contemplate."

"Things that concerned me?"

"Why do you always have to think everything concerns you?" Crixus asked. "Is it pride because you're the Dragonborn?"

"Did it concern me or not?"

"Yes, it did concern you."

"Then why..."

"Just shut up and listen, will you?" Crixus groaned, then leaned back upon a barrel. "You were pretty good, fighting off Miraak."

"Why, thank you!"

"Don't thank me yet," Crixus continued. "See, when I arrived here, I found that there was someone waiting for me."

"Who?"

"If you knew, you wouldn't need to be asking this person's name," Crixus said. "As it turns out, this...connection of mine requests anonymity."

"What did they want?"

Crixus looked up at Eirik. "Have you ever heard of Sithis?"

The name was cold and dark, like the name of an enemy, someone or something that was not to be trusted. Eirik, however, could only put this together from how it sounded, as he knew nothing of this person, or thing, and so shook his head.

"I thought not," Crixus said. "It's not something you Divine-worshiping types would mention. The people of Tamriel may go to the temples of the Eight or spill their blood on the shrines of the daedra, but there is one god, one whom all the people of Tamriel worship in secret. That is Sithis."

"I thought you didn't hold with gods or worship," Eirik stated.

"I don't," Crixus replied. "However, Sithis is not a god, nor is he human or immortal. Simply put, he is the Void."

"What does that have to do with this...connection of yours?" Eirik asked.

"Dammit, Eirik, why did you have to be such a foolish, stupid Nord?" Crixus asked, a strange desperation in his voice. "Why couldn't you just have been content with the ruling of the Empire, or-or let sleeping dogs lie in Riften?"

"Just what are you saying, Crixus?" Eirik asked, keeping his temper under control, as he had learned to expect this from Crixus.

"Maven Black-Briar wants you dead!" Crixus said.

"What?"

"Big shock there!" Crixus said grimly. "But this is no laughing matter. Her son Hemming...put out the call for your death. Seeing as how she's noticed me in your company, despite my best efforts to remain hidden, the task of killing you has been placed...in my hands."

Eirik was stunned silent by this revelation. He had remembered what Crixus say about the time coming when they would be pitted against each other, but he expected, unwisely based on Crixus' proclivity towards stealth, that this would happen sometime in the distant future, upon the field of battle. Here he was, on a ship filled with people who were associates of Crixus and would not question having one body thrown overboard. Mjoll would not be of any help, he feared, for their marriage had, for all he knew, broken the spell that she had upon her since before they met. And he knew that, as close as he was now, Crixus could kill him within a moment's notice before he could make a sound.

"So?" he suddenly said. "What are you waiting for?"

"If I wanted to kill you," Crixus answered. "You never would have made it on-board this ship."

"But why? Why you?"

"Because I know you," Crixus replied. "And I'd have ample opportunity to take you out, being so close to you and all."

"But why you? Why not the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Because of Sithis, that's why!" Crixus stated. "Sithis, the father of the daedra, represents change. The Dark Brotherhood have always been part of that change, being the servants of Sithis. Dragonborn represents change and, unlike you, you don't exactly make a secret of your powers. They wouldn't risk losing such a powerful agent of change, even if Maven and Tullius committed the Black Sacrament on you at the same time under a blood-moon."

"So what happens now?"

"I have to kill you," Crixus said.

"But you just said..."

"I know what I 'just' said," Crixus replied. "I also know that if I refuse this task, my life will be forfeit. Maven Black-Briar might not control the Dark Brotherhood, as your precious Lioness may say, but she has other ways of eliminating her rivals and those who oppose her."

"As I said, what happens now?"

"We will dock in Windhelm," Crixus said. "And you will leave immediately. For your sake, I hope I never see you again."

"That's rather cold," Eirik stated.

"It's either that or fulfill my obligations," Crixus replied. "And..." He sighed in frustration. "...dammit, it would be a waste to see you die."

Eirik did not know what to say. Having known Crixus for the past several months to be nothing more than an arrogant Cyrodilian with no love for anything of Skyrim, hearing him say those ten words had a profound effect on Eirik. He had heard from Mjoll how he had spoken of their battle with Miraak, but did not fully believe what he had been told. Not because he thought that Mjoll was lying to him, but because it seemed so incompatible with what he knew about Crixus' character. Now he heard it with his own ears, and was close enough that he could see Crixus' lips speak those very words.

"Now get lost," Crixus said. "Before I change my mind."

Without another word, Eirik turned about, opened up the door and made his way towards where he had awoken. His mind was still trying to wrap around the idea that Crixus actually cared for him. So deep was his thought that he did not see the hooded and robed figure walking through the hallway until he had bumped into him.

"Watch it!" the stranger spat.

"My fault," Eirik said, stepping back.

"There you are!" the stranger said. "Time to die, Dawnguard!"

Suddenly Eirik was thrown to the ground as the stranger threw off their robe, revealing, in the swaying candle-light of the hallway, a human vampire. Before he could move, the vampire leaped upon him, pinning him down under his body and holding back his hands with a grip of iron. The face leered down at him, long fangs reaching venomously towards his neck. Suddenly the beast recoiled and had released Eirik's wrist. Something had ran it through the back, dangerously close to the heart, and it had to remove it.

"Don't shout!" a voice strained. "It'll blow this ship apart! Shaddar! Gorak! Down here!"

Eirik saw Crixus wrestling with the vampire, the Skaal gift of the Nordic carved dagger buried in the vampire's back. Suddenly Gorak appeared and picked up the vampire off the ground and, with one hand holding the vampire's wrist, began punching it over and over with its fist. Moments later, the Redguard captain appeared, brandishing a curved blade in one hand an a small flame of magical fire in his left hand.

"Hold it steady!" Shaddar said to Gorak, then knelt down by the vampire's face, holding the fire close to its face. "Do you see this? I know you fear it, and I _will_ use it if you don't cooperate!"

The vampire hissed at Shaddar and Gorak struck it in the face. Without another warning, Shaddar thrust the fire into the vampire's face, causing it to roar and cry out in pain.

"That's enough!" Eirik said.

"I won't have one of these on my ship!" Shaddar said. Turning then to the vampire, whose face was now blackened and burned, the magical fire dissipated. "Now tell me, un-living, how did you get on-board my ship?"

"Easily," the vampire replied. "Killed one of your men and stowed aboard before you left Solitude. A pity he left as soon as he did, I would have had him."

"Who?" Shaddar asked. "Who were you sent to kill?"

"That one," the vampire nodded at Eirik. "The Dawnguard. His kind hunt my kind, my lord demanded that he must die. He knows too much."

"What does he know?" Shaddar continued. "Who is your lord?"

"Chaos take the lot of you!" the vampire roared. "Nothing will stop the Night Eternal!"

"Throw him overboard," Eirik said. "I don't think we'll be able to get anything out of him."

"That's a bad idea," Crixus said. "It won't kill him."

"But it will get rid of him," Eirik replied. "And that's all that matters right now."

Shaddar gave Gorak the order and Eirik and Crixus followed the large Orc up the stairs to the main deck, with the vampire thrashing in the Orc's grasp. Ever and anon, Gorak would have to punch him a few times, but even that was not enough to keep the vampire satiated. Once they reached the rail, Gorak heaved the vampire into the Sea of Ghosts as easily as he had thrown Eirik off the walls of Solitude and into the bay.

"It would seem," Crixus said, turning to Eirik. "That Maven Black-Briar is not the only person who wants you dead."

* * *

Fredas, the twentieth day of Sun's Dusk, saw the Red Dog make berth at the harbor in Windhelm. Crixus remained below, as this would be the last time, accordingly, that he would see Eirik since he announced that there had been a bounty placed on his head. Eirik and Mjoll disembarked while the rest of the crew spoke with the locals, looking for new crew, take on supplies as well as hear the rumors of what was going on in Skyrim as well as across Tamriel. While Eirik and Mjoll were making their way from the docks towards the city streets, an Argonian wearing a hood and dressed in the brown robes of a mage stepped in front of them.

"Why, bless my tail!" the Argonian said, his yellow eyes widening with delight. "I have traveled across Tamriel for many long years, but never in all of my days have I ever seen a creature so lovely! My name is Tavris."

"I'm sorry, friend," Mjoll said. "Do I know you?"

"Would you like to?" Tavris asked. "Because I do, by the Eight!"

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Eirik said. "She is with me."

"Dear Nordic beauty," Tavris said, ignoring Eirik all together. "What must I do to win your favor? I would do anything: I would climb the Throat of the World, traverse the depths of Blackreach, kill Ulfric Stormcloak or Alduin, all for you!"

"Are you truly flirting with my wife?" Eirik interjected, pushing himself in between Tavris and Mjoll.

"Fair Mjoll," Tavris said. "Be so kind as to tell this drunken snow-back to steal someone else's love. His presence is becoming quite annoying!"

"What did you just say?" Eirik growled, pushing the Argonian aside.

"Be careful, snow-back," Tavris hissed. "You threaten the Dragonborn of legend!"

Eirik almost chuckled. "Are you serious?"

"Very serious, snow-back!"

"Well, you're quite mistaken," Eirik said. "Because _I_ am the Dragonborn!"

At this, Tavris laughed. "Please, do not delude yourself, wretched snow-back! There can only be one Dragonborn, and you are looking at him."

"Love, please," Mjoll interjected. "Let's just leave."

"No, my love!" Tavris interjected, squeezing out of Eirik's grip and coming closer to Mjoll than comfort allowed. "There is no reason for you to leave. I will protect you from that dumb, Talos-thumping snow-back."

"That _snow-back_ is my husband!" Mjoll interjected, removing the gauntlet of her Nordic carved armor and flashing her wedding band before the Argonian's nose.

"No, but what is this?" Tavris asked, sounding shocked. "What lies, what trickery has that wretched snow-back done to seduce you away from your one true love?"

"That's quite enough now!" Mjoll retorted.

"Oh, but I won't stand for this injustice, this deception!" Tavris continued, now sounding frustrated and confounded. "I will not rest until I have freed you from this worthless snow-back's manipulation and made you my darling wife!"

"That's enough!" Eirik shouted, reaching for his seax.

"What's going on here?" a soldier shouted. From the other side of the stone port there appeared a Stormcloak soldier - for these were the guards of the Eastmarch hold - with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Nothing that concerns you, snow-back!" Tavris shouted at the guard. "I know your kind. Always creeping by the Dock Exchange in the dead of night, taunting us, harassing us, calling us scale-backs!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the guard said. "My only problem is with these Elves, I don't have anything against Argonians."

"You snow-backs are all alike, all hateful of anyone not your own!" Tavris shouted. "Well damn you, damn Talos, damn Ulfric and damn your pathetic rebellion!"

The Argonian's outrage was starting to cause a scene. Other Argonians were coming to investigate, hearing the gravelly voice of one of their own lifted up in rage against the Windhelm guards. But, in a bizarre twist of fate, the one person Eirik never expected to appear approached the docks, with his hand on an ax.

"Harassing the people again, lizard?" Brunwulf Free-Winter said. "Better run on home, if you know what's good for you!"

"You!" Tavris hissed. "You're no different than the other snow-backs! You sit in your precious White Quarter, talking about freeing the Elves from Ulfric's tyranny, but you don't care about _my_ people, or those thieving cat caravans! What about that precious monument, huh? The Decree of Monument?!"

"It was made to welcome the _Dunmer_ into Skyrim," Brunwulf corrected. "It didn't say nothing about no cats or lizards. Now be off with you!"

"That's right, Tavris," the guard said. "You're disturbing the peace."

Tavris hissed, then let down his hands, muttering oaths at them in his native tongue. "Typical of you snow-backs. One of your own cries out against fabled 'oppression' and everyone gives them heed, but all ears turn to stone for the plight of the 'scale backs!'" He spat at the guard, who was walking on down the dock to clear off the others who had gathered.

"Come on," Eirik said. "Let's go."

"Aye," Mjoll said, walking on after him with her hand resting on the hilt of Grimsever. But while they were passing on towards the eastern gate of Windhelm, they could hear Tavris shouting out after them.

"Mark my words, my love!" he shouted. "I will find a way to save you from that Nord snow-back! I'll see him choke on his own blood and then make conquest of you! It is written in the stars!"

* * *

**(AN: Okay, that was a decent length for a chapter. Lot of stuff happened, like the random vampire attacks and something else. I don't know if it's a _Hearthfire_ only thing or if it happens in regular _Skyrim_, but your spouse can get kidnapped. It never happened with me until I dismissed Mjoll as my follower. This way I can build up one plot-line as well as do some well-needed payback. No, it wasn't against Argonians in general, just one insane one. And yes, he is insane. He is _not_ a Dragonborn [two was apparently so many that it lost several readers], he's just full of himself and a bit insane. Reminder, Tavris is _NOT_ a Dragonborn in this story. Apart from just payback, my original dedicated reviewer, _Cyrus Dragonhunter_, suggested that I have other secondary characters in the game if I was going for multiple Dragonborns. While Eirik and Crixus [excluding Miraak since he's dead] are more than enough, I still adhered slightly to his idea of a crazy Argonian, so yeah, even though you're not reading this anymore, I did remember you, my Northern brother!)**

**(One big problem I had while writing this story was that I had given Lydia a fleshed out back-story as well as plot relevance later on, Serana had a major part, Aela will definitely have her moment once the Companions quest begins, Frea, while originally going to have more importance, was kind of demoted, but I had nothing really going on for Mjoll, even though she's the co-main character. While re-playing through _Skyrim_, I discovered that book in Aerin's house, in her room, and so assume that, even if she doesn't hold with the more radical ideals of the Stormcloaks, she won't support the Thalmor either. Also, yes, that note is there as well. Which means that it will be _she_, and not Eirik, who goes to Dawnstar and undertakes that horrible daedra quest. Aside from what will also happen between the two of them, I do feel that she needs more of her own adventures rather than just tagging along on Eirik's. What do you think?)  
**


	73. Woes of the Sky Children

**(AN: Yay, reviews! I think he might have lost that first Nordic great-sword, I can't recall what happened to it, but the Bloodskaal blade he "thought" was taken from him by the Thalmor when he was captured in Haafingar. The reason I say "thought" is because something happens in this chapter which will change that. As for the quests, I need to shore one up, because poor Farkas has been waiting outside of Dustman's Cairn for too long. He's probably said "screw it, he's not coming!" and returned to Jorrvaskr. And thank you for reminding me of that.)**

**(There is this one "official" mod that brings in cities from _Arena_ into _Skyrim_, and, as _le fou_ [or one of my other reviewers] commented that Alduin's return doesn't seem very serious as not that many villages are under attack or there are not many refugees, I thought I would make that mod fanon for this story. And yes, I know it's actually the Stone Quarter, but Tavris was being racist.)**

* * *

**Woes of the Sky Children**

"By the Nine!" Mjoll uttered, once they were safely past the gates and making their way towards the warmth of Candlehearth Hall. "He wouldn't stop! And the nerve of him!"

"It's not your fault," Eirik groaned. "Let's just get inside. I'm weary and in need of a good meal."

"Are you feeling alright, love?" Mjoll asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look very good," she said. "A bit paler than usual."

"I'm fine," he said. "I just need some food in me, that's all."

As they were walking the busy stone streets of Windhelm and up the stairs leading to Candlehearth, they were stopped by an old Cyrodilian woman with pale white hair.

"Please, good people!" the old woman said, holding out to them a piece of parchment. "Take this. If you value your lives in this city, take this and beware!"

Mjoll took the paper and thanked the old woman, as Eirik pushed open the door and they walked into the warmth of Candlehearth Hall. He purchased food and drink from the bartender, a middle-aged Nord woman with blond hair named Elda, and then hurried with Mjoll off to a table where they could sit and eat in privacy. As he looked about, he saw that the inn was packed with mostly Nords and other humans, although he did see an Altmeri woman seated at the tables. This was strange, as he wondered why the Nords of Windhelm would keep Dunmer in the Grey Quarter but tolerate an Altmer in the Stone Quarter.

While they were waiting for their food, Mjoll opened the parchment she had been given by the old man.

"By the gods!" she exclaimed. "This is horrible. Apparently there's a murderer abroad in Windhelm. Listen to this. _Beware the Butcher, the killer who haunts the streets of Riften! These calamitous times bring out the worst in people, don't be the next victim! See Viola Giordano if you spot any suspicious activity._ This is absolutely horrible!"

"Aye," Eirik said.

"Well, shall we do something about this?" she asked. "After all, this is Ysgramor's city. Why should it's reputation be tarnished by the death of its citizens?"

"That is true," Eirik replied, though he feared what this would mean. He already had so many responsibilities upon his shoulders that he could scarcely remember them all. Another one, no matter how virtuous and noble, was not what he needed at this time. While he was waiting, he saw a young Nord woman wearing a low-cut yellow tunic and green skirt approach them with their drinks.

"Here you go," she said, leaning in to their table as she placed their food and drinks before them. "Although, and you never heard it from me, the good stuff's in the Grey Quarter. Just look for the Gnisis Corner-club."

"Susanna!" the voice of Elda cried out from the bar. "Stop spreading that elf-loving bile and serve the tables!"

"Yes, Elda!" the server Susanna replied, then turned back to Eirik and Mjoll. "If you will excuse me, I have more tables to wait."

"Just a moment," Eirik said, pointing over to a Dunmer standing in the corner, near the hearth with its ever-burning candle. "Who is that?"

"That's Luaffyn, our regular bard," Susanna said.

"What happened to the other one?"

"Which...oh, now I remember," Susanna commented. "You two came through here several months ago. Ah, well that was when the Imperial bard Malukah was visiting Windhelm. Not exactly a regular, that one, travels the provinces with her lute. Though, if you ask me, how she manages to get across the border what with the war going on is beyond me."

"Maybe one day," Eirik said. "You'll meet her and ask her how she manages it."

"Aye, maybe," Susanna replied. "Anyway, enjoy your drinks and remember to tip Luaffyn. She's an amazing bard." Having deposited their drinks, Susanna departed, flashing Eirik a bright smile before she left.

"I say that," Mjoll said.

"Say what?"

"I know you saw her," she said. "She's young, beautiful."

"Mjoll, are you jealous?" Eirik asked. "I married you because I love you, and that hasn't changed."

"I'm not jealous," Mjoll replied. "I just say you notice her and want to ask: is that what you want?"

"I want you, you know that," Eirik stated.

At this, Mjoll sighed, placing her hand over her face as if in frustration.

"What's wrong, love?" Eirik asked.

"I know we've never been able to be as close as you would like," she began. "You are the Dragonborn, after all, and I must share you with all of Skyrim. But I married you, remember? Can I not have you all to myself at least once?"

"But what about your powers? Your gift?"

"The White take my gift!" Mjoll said a bit forcefully. "I'm not afraid for myself, not when I have Grimsever or..." She looked up at Eirik, her amber eyes glistening in the light of the hearth. "...or when I have you at my side."

"Should we rent a room?" Eirik asked.

"For sleeping, you mean," Mjoll replied. "I'm too weary for anything else."

"But what about what you just said?"

"Soon, my love," she said. "Very soon. Now come, let's finish our food then go find ourselves a room."

It was with in awkward silence that they finished their meal, then went looking for Elda for to purchase a room. These were on the ground level, directly below the Candlehearth common room. As they made their way to their room, Eirik noticed the sound of feet just overhead and could see shadows of patrons walking back and forth just a few inches above their heads

"Whose brilliant idea was it to put the rooms directly below the common room?" Eirik asked, as he closed the door after Elda showed them to their rooms.

"From what I've heard," Mjoll said. "This house once belonged to a very wealthy man living in Windhelm who died earlier in this era. His son lit a candle for him over the hearth, which has been running ever since, and eventually they turned this house of his into an inn."

"It obviously wasn't built to be a house," Eirik said. He removed his rucksack from off his back, but then strangely his hand seemed to slacken then drop the bag all of its own while he swayed towards the open bed.

"Are you alright, love?" Mjoll asked.

"Yes, just tired," Eirik said. "Whatever's in that bag?"

"Oh, Crixus and his associates gathered your things from the Solitude jail and smuggled them aboard the ship," Mjoll said.

Eirik opened the sack up and began rummaging through its contents. He saw the _Bear of Markarth_, an amulet of Talos, several clear potions with a tint of red in them - water with an tincture of wheat and blue mountain flowers - the Elder Scroll from Alftand, several water-skins, some of them filled with soup that was now cold, and a letter. Picking this up, he saw that it was a short note written to him by Crixus.

_To Eirik,_

_When I heard that you were captured, I made my way to Solitude immediately and arrived late on the day of your capture, being Loredas the thirteenth day of Sun's Dusk. I was able to pull a few strings to get your gear removed, but this letter from Ingun I sent with you I have removed and placed in the hands of Jarl Elisif. She wisely deferred judgment to her courtiers, but that arse-kisser Erikur insisted that there is nothing wrong in Riften. In private, I was able to have the Jarl pen the following attachment._

_C._

_PS - You can try as hard as you like, but Tamriel _needs_ the Thieves Guild._

"Ingun?" Mjoll spoke up. "You received a letter from Ingun Black-Briar? That strange, self-proclaimed potions expert?"

"It was handed to me," Eirik said. "I didn't choose to receive it." Mjoll began rehearsing why the Black-Briar family were the worst blight that could ever have come upon Riften, if not all of Tamriel, while Eirik picked up the attachment.

_To Eirik, surnamed the Dragonborn,_

_I have heard that you are to be executed. I have done all I could to overturn this decision, based on this information given to me by Crixus, but General Tullius and my advisers tell me that it is not wise to cross the Thalmor. Therefore I leave the matter of your escape in his most capable hands. If you receive this letter, then it means that there is nothing I can do for the people of Riften. All of my resources are tied with this bloody war and my advisers tell me that there are no problems in Riften._

_However, as the acting High Queen until the moot can decide, I hope that you will bring more substantial proof of Maven's actions to light before we can act. If my advise is worth anything, then I would say that you must have a strong and well-connected family of your own to protect you, such as the Silver-Bloods of Markarth, or the Snow-Shods of Riften. Either way, there can be no move made until you can bring me solid proof of Maven's treachery.  
_

_Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude, widow of the true High King Torygg_

"...and then there's Hemming," Mjoll said. "That spoiled little dandy-brat! He treats Sibbi and Ingun like his children instead of his brother and sister. Thinks he's entitled to lord over them that he is the heir of the Black-Briar family fortune."

"Please, love," Eirik interjected. "I have much on my mind right now, I need to sleep."

"Oh, right," she replied. "Goodnight, love."

Mjoll swiftly fell asleep on the bed, while Eirik paced about the room for a while. His right hand was giving him more pain than he had ever felt before, and he was almost certain that it was making him weaker and weaker. He reached into his sack, still laying on the ground, unstopped the nearest of the red potions, and took a sip. His hand went numb for a while, but he knew that something was wrong with it, more than just the hole that spike in Dimhollow Crypt had made. At last, as weariness took hold, he fell asleep.

* * *

Eirik was awoken early that morning by the loud pounding of feet running above his head. Rising up, he saw Mjoll was awake as well, looking up at the roof. As he had slept in his armor, Eirik rose up and walked out of the room, with Mjoll following on behind him. As they were on their way towards the southern door, which led out of the inn, they saw that they were not the only ones running out to investigate what was happening.

Outside, they saw the city guards were lining up outside of the gates, with their shields in hand. The gates were opened and some of the guards were attempting to close the gates, but a great press of people stood before the guards, trying to make their way into Windhelm. Eirik made his way to the gates at once, coming up behind the city guards to one of their bear-skin captains.

"Hail, bear-skin," Eirik greeted. "What's all this about?"

"Dragon Wood was attacked last night, by a dragon of all things," the bear-skin said. "Burned to the ground. Now they want to take refuge in the city's walls."

"Why can't they?" Eirik asked.

"We haven't received any orders from the Jarl," replied the captain.

Eirik approached the wall of city guards, looking out on the people gathered here. Many were Nords, but there were some Bretons, a few Dunmer and Cyrodilian families among them. All of them were blacked with soot or covered with ash. At the front of the line, seeking to force their way past the guards, were the haggard and weary men, and some of the stronger women. Behind them were their families, weeping or cowering in fear from the attack and the horrific scene before the gates of Windhelm.

"Where were the hold guards?" one of the men from the crowd shouted out. "We had nothing and our town was destroyed! At least Kynesgrove wasn't burned to cinders!"

"You know where our sons and daughters are, kinsman!" the bear-skin shouted out from behind the guards. "Are you a traitor like the Battle-Born clan of Whiterun?"

"You dare call me a traitor?" the man shouted back. "I have three sons, all of them have joined the Stormcloaks! Look at this!" He held up from his neck an amulet of Talos. "I'm as faithful as you are! That doesn't change the truth! This war is tearing Skyrim apart! We're easy prey for these relentless dragon attacks!"

Eirik heard everything, but at least this man was the most lucid. Some of those pressing upon the shields of the guards were half-crazed with fear, crying out and shouting about the flames and the screams of the dying. For the guards, it was their duty to keep the city of Windhelm from falling into chaos. The Empire would claim this as justification of their cause if word ever reached the Imperial holds: the Stormcloaks couldn't keep the peace, a riot occurred in the streets of Ysgramor's city, and the loyalists would rise up in arms to liberate Skyrim from the disorderly barbarians who had overrun her. That was their purpose. Nor, Eirik guessed, could they allow them into the city. The Dunmer hated the Grey Quarter, but they would rather not leave Windhelm all together to make room for the refugees, and neither would the Argonians. No, they had great reason to keep the refugees out of Windhelm.

For Eirik, he could not ignore their cries, their pleading. Though he and Ralof were the only ones who arrived in a seemingly peaceful Riverwood, scattered refugees from Helgen slowly appeared in Whiterun over the next few days. He heard their stories, recalling fresh into his mind the day Alduin attacked. Not only did he know all too well the horrors of a dragon attack, he was personally responsible for their lives. He was the Dragonborn, the hero of Skyrim, the one who would save them from their oppressors. And here he was, on the other side of the line of soldiers, watching from safety as the people he was supposed to be saving were suffering.

"Love?" Mjoll spoke up. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," Eirik said.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You look rather sad."

"How can you not be sad?" he asked. "Look at those people! They need help."

"Yes, they do," Mjoll said. "We still have some coin, I will go to the Candlehearth Inn and buy all the rooms. You go to the houses and see if any of these wealthy Windhelm citizens are willing to open their homes for these people."

"Aye," Eirik replied. "But that would only be to treat the affect, not to end the cause."

"These people need our help!" Mjoll stated.

"And help them we shall!" Eirik said.

* * *

In the end, it was not as easy as simply asking the guards to open the gates. Mjoll did that and Eirik ended up being taken to the Palace of the Kings to answer for her actions, though he told the guards that she had done so of her own free will. Nevertheless, both of them were now standing in the great hall of the Palace of the Kings, before Ulfric Stormcloak once again. They told him that they were not rioters, and that they had only asked the guards to open the gates to let the refugees stay in Windhelm. While Ulfric commended them for their charity, he told them that the refugees would have to stay outside of the city until room could be made for them within.

This did not sit over well with Mjoll, who walked down the length of the hall in frustration while Eirik stood still underneath the watchful gaze of Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Is there something else?" Ulfric asked.

"Aye, my lord," Eirik said, but he could not look up at Ulfric again, not after what he had read. "I have a question to ask of you."

"Speak up, then."

"Tell me about the Incident at Markarth," Eirik said.

"After my escape from prison," Ulfric began. "I was contacted by the son of the Jarl, who told me of the death of his father and the murder of several influential Nords in Markarth by the Reachmen. He promised that if I retook Markarth for him, he would reinstate worship of Talos, as is the right of every Nord."

"And the battle?" Eirik asked.

"I used the Gift of the Voice to destroy the city's defenders," Ulfric said. "I have heard reports from the Battle of Heljarchen Valley, and I see that you yourself do the same. But Igmund and the Empire bowed whole-heartedly to the threats of war from the Thalmor and I was expelled from the Reach."

"I have heard," Eirik said. "That your men killed many more than just the defenders of Markarth. Men, women, children, the elderly and the sick, even those who had thrown down their weapons in surrender, even fellow kinsmen!"

To this, Ulfric gave Eirik the strangest and most heart-chilling response which he could ever have expected: he laughed.

"I see you've been reading _The Bear of Markarth_," he said. "Written by an Imperial scholar, and a Thalmor advocate, just like Leonara Venatus, the one who wrote _The Talos Mistake_. These would have you believe that the war between Elves and Men has been caused by Nordic aggression, that the Night of Tears was a peaceful misunderstanding, or that the worship of Talos leads men away from the Eight Divines, who were creations of the Elves in the first place!" Ulfric spat on the floor in disgust.

"These would have us bend over willingly - nay, _joyfully_ - to the mercy of our Elvish 'masters.' But I was there, during the Great War. I saw the limits of Elvish mercy. Do not believe anything these Imperial scholars, locked away in their ivory towers, may say about the War, for they know nothing! We could have won the war, we could have driven those yellow-skinned bastards into the sea, and make them pay for the blood they shed in the streets of the Capital!" He groaned, once again disgusted. "But the Empire capitulated to their demands, and now they teach us falsehoods, saying we _lost_ the war. Therefore it is our duty, _your_ duty, to rise up with your brothers and sisters in the Stormcloak rebellion, throw off the shackles of Imperial oppression and declare that we shall not bend over to the whims of Dominion!"

"Hear hear!" Galmar Stone-Fist shouted from the next room.

"I hope that was enough for you," Ulfric says. "Now leave me be, I have a war to win."

"Aye, my lord," Eirik said, saluting as he rose and prepared to depart. But he was not sated. He turned about and addressed Ulfric once again.

"Did you really kill innocent people in Markarth?" Eirik asked.

"My actions are answerable before Talos," Ulfric said. "You are dismissed."

Eirik bowed, then walked down the hall to where Mjoll was waiting for him.

"So, what's the plan?" Mjoll asked.

"We're going to Riften...again," Eirik said.

* * *

**(AN: I think that is a decent length for this chapter. I probably haven't pushed through to 300,000 yet, but I will. As for Eirik's hand, yes, that is getting annoying even for me. But what happens in Riften in the next chapter [where we may hit 300,000 words] might just prepare the way for that to be over and done with. One way or another, that will happen.)**

**(Dragon Wood is from _Arena_, though I don't know if it was added into _Skyrim_ in said mod. That's one of the places I had destroyed, though in my original time-line, I did have a very serious attack [i can't say who by] on Whiterun. That might still happen, though.)**

**(Something _very_ big will happen in the next chapter, just be ready for it.)**


End file.
